


Some Memories, We May Keep

by mika60



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Eventually some angst, Just trying to fill in all the canon gaps, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mika60/pseuds/mika60
Summary: The missing panels, the missing games, the missing moments.The them we never saw.*Now complete! :)*
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 228
Kudos: 887
Collections: COMFY TIMES, Team MSBY Black Jackal Haikyuu, sakuatsu fics recos!!, ~SakuAtsu~





	1. 2012, July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never written a Haikyuu fic before, and suddenly I’ve published two at once (!). Life’s just like that sometimes, apparently.
> 
> Special thanks to [Nes](https://twitter.com/atskiyomuu) for dragging me down the SakuAtsu abyss, as well as [Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle), [Lara](https://twitter.com/blakjackal), and [Lou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrandnewheart/pseuds/abrandnewheart) for being patient with my constant n00b yelling about the ship, since I was a few months late to discovering it.
> 
> We got crumbs in canon, so I wanted to bake a few (Hopefully) palatable cakes. Enjoy <3

_Vertical jump: 3 to 3.2 meters. Potential spike speed: 105 to 110 km/h. Preferred trajectory: back line, favoring left._

_Vertical jump: 3.4 to 3.7 meters. Potential spike speed: 103 to 111 km/h. Preferred t_ _rajectory_ _: corner opposite libero._

Tosses are merely transitions in this game of velocity and might; the silent accomplice to a kill, intricate to a fault and bearing little loyalty towards its array of possible recipients. With nanoseconds marking their lifespan, they are temporary, fleeting moments swiftly forgotten beyond the blast of a spike, when even the most essential conduits fade away from the memories of the adrenaline-filled audience. 

Miya Atsumu touches the volleyball the most.

He touches, and guides, and grants generously. Play after play, his neurons retrieve his teammates’ individual data of vertical jump heights and potential spike speeds and preferred trajectories, formulating one ideal calibration to the next before maneuvering limbs for delivery. That consistent pressure of perfection for himself translates to attention from the stands, and he thrives within the decibels of cheers and jeers - they prove that he competes on par with the glorified highlight-reel creators of the sport, and he is always at his best when feeding off of the disdain of his opponents.

Derision matters little to him, as like a typical set, he knows there is no need to remain in anyone else's lives beyond the seconds spent on a court. Instead, he utilizes the saccharine within honey-toned eyes to mystify hearts and engrave his faultless tosses into their memories, before _he_ is the one to abandon _them_ \- never vice versa.

In this game of velocity and might, Miya Atsumu refuses to be another forgettable transition.

==

It is during Year 2 when Atsumu discovers that his reputation has officially preceded him.

Hushed whispers and glances have always trailed the Inarizaki team no matter the location of their playing field, and the deeper they tread into enemy territory, the more they must exploit those reactions as fuel for victory. On this day, the center stage is the Tokyo stadium housing the final rounds of InterHigh, where their sheer dominance over opponents within Hyogo prefecture the past few months have not fallen upon deaf ears. The clock strikes nine when their signature black sneakers squeak against waxed flooring - the jarring announcement of an imperial arrival.

To Atsumu's satisfaction, he detects an unprecedented cloud of fear and anticipation loom over the stands. At court level, school jersey colors mesh together to form jittery rainbows, their adorners now engaging in nervous conversation about how their own hopes of championship might be in doubt. Though he pretends to pay no mind, there is little denying the mentions of " _Miya twins_ ," " _that setter_ ," and " _Miya Atsumu_ " that attach to each discussion like enduring plagues.

He grins at officially being seen as a harbinger of the apocalypse.

_Time to turn up the charm_.

It's a strategy he has mastered over weeks, though Kita-san never requests it - and likely despises it to a degree. Nevertheless, Atsumu commits to this delicate responsibility of disarming the opposing players and their fans, disguising intimidation as a piece of delicious candy rife with poison. Befriend, lure, dominate, repeat – a process that has proved effective in the psychological warfare aspect of their matches, and one he has no intentions of discontinuing.

His steps gradually diverge from the team march, making an almost-gentle approach just _that_ much closer to the southern flank of the stands.

"Not again..." Osamu's sighed complaint only pushes him further into the charade.

" _Atsumu-kun!!!!_ " Two girls - wearing his next opponent's school colors, as always - shriek in delight as he flashes a wide smile upward. As with every other match, he had found them from afar as soon as he entered the arena just a few minutes ago. Their naiveté, their starry eyes, their impact on the rest of the onlookers - such optimal targets for this enormous a stage.

"Ahhh...thank you so much. Please enjoy the game, everyone!" He injects _just_ the right amount of flirtation into his words, which are already overflowing with the flourishes of Kansai dialect.

The girls shriek again, and his quick once-over of all those seated within their vicinity proves rewarding - only smiles and faint blushes appear across the board, hopelessly bewitched by a singular exchange.

Having accomplished his mission, he turns to rejoin the rest of Inarizaki at the end of their brief journey, but not before glancing at the Mujinazaka team across the court. Contrary to the expressions of their own fans, the players' faces only give away disappointment and frustration, as if the brief moments of betrayal were final nails in their coffin of defeat.

Atsumu smirks and attempts to take another step without watching his path, only to slam the left side of his torso into a somewhat unyielding object.

“Whoa, sorr—" He apologizes with actual sincerity and extends both arms, half-expecting to save an equipment-carrying-damsel-in-distress.

Instead, a lithe figure bathed in colors far too bright to be safe for the naked eye dodges his grasp, quickly shrinking away like a deer caught in headlights. Only when the silhouette becomes fully rigid against the nearby wall could Atsumu actually decipher that the human-sized highlighter was, indeed, a human. A very tall human with jet black hair and the sourest expression Atsumu has ever seen - at least, from what he can deduce above the person's face mask. Eyebrows that rival his own in thickness are fully cinched in annoyance, while hooded eyelids barely conceal irises so dark that they may have absorbed all remaining light in the universe. 

"Uh...sorry." Though he had stood his ground, for the first time in a long while Atsumu finds himself stepping back slightly, his mumbled words bound by a tether of intimida-- _No, curiosity. Just curiosity_. His brain retorts in its typical pride.

Without softening his look of irritation or moving the rest of his body, the slightly taller stranger gives a terse nod of grudging acknowledgement. The movement draws Atsumu to a faint pair of circular voids resting vertically above his right brow. _Piercing?_ His eyes train on the intriguing pattern, analyzing it like a dug volleyball that’s about to arrive in his palms. _No, moles._

Whispers suddenly begin around them, clearly all scrutinizing the awkward situation. This time, however, Atsumu is unable to catch anything specific being muttered. The symphony of hushed voices and the stranger's mask transports him to a masquerade of sorts, where a dramatic dance just concluded without any hint of his partner's true identity. In the past, he has never been drawn to mysteries - they are completely contrary to everything he claims to already understand; they are distractions – barriers - from perfecting the transitions he's obligated to perform.

And yet, the mystery in front of him now is staring with the tension of a thousand tightropes, as if demanding to be snapped and solved. In any other circumstance, he may have interpreted something threatening from this ongoing confrontation. But here and now, there is only a rather bizarre form of intrigue, and he finds himself returning it.

“Atsumu-kun!”

The call of his name originates from a deeper, more familiar voice this time - not that of a fan but his assistant coach. Though his feet gradually begin to respond to the beckoning, it still takes Atsumu at least five seconds to tear away from the mutual gaze, and another few seconds longer to return to his original path. By the time he rejoins the team, his fellow players are already sprawled all over the floor, fully engaged in routine warm-ups, and his belated approach goes nearly unnoticed - nearly.

"What was that all about?" Rintarou, who had evidently watched the entire exchange, gives the first commentary in the middle of a stretch.

"Dunno." Atsumu feigns nonchalance as he drops his duffle and begins to remove his outerwear. To his chagrin, he is only able to endure a few seconds before curiosity triumphs.

“...anyone know who da mopey wallflower I ran into is?” 

Most of Inarizaki brush off the question, though Osamu does squint in the direction of the original encounter. “Hard ta’ tell with the mask, but pretty sure that’s an Itachiyama jacket on him.” He looks back at his twin with an inquisitive stare. "Y'know, ya were sizin’ up each other for quite a---"

“Right, shoulda’ remembered that it’s the same jersey color on those tapes we watched.” Before Osamu completes the unfortunately keen observation, Atsumu interrupts with his usual reflex. “Don’t seem to remember seeing anyone so _stiff_ on the court, though.”

“Maybe he’s just pretendin’ to be a dumbass, unlike an actual dumbass I know.” Osamu shrugs and returns to his exercises, though not before shading his twin's deflection tactic.

Atsumu ignores it. “Nah. He’s probably just a manager or somethin’.”

The whistle signaling the end of warm-up period sounds just as Osamu drawls out his final observation.

“Well, that’s one _tall_ manager, then...” 

_Even taller than most of the players._ Atsumu gulps at the overlooked detail.

==

Their semifinal match proves only a minor challenge in the end, with a first set deuce that's quickly resolved by back-to-back kills from Aran, followed by a runaway victory in the second. Atsumu's serves are consistent and spot-on, while his tosses hit all their marks, providing the usual glory to his teammates while leaving more than enough for himself.

From time to time, he feels eyes targeting him from a specific corner of the upper stands. But whenever he glances upward to catch the culprit, excited fans from every possible section scream his name out loud, forcing him to reciprocate and end the search prematurely. Despite the constant distractions, Atsumu performs well. In fact, he performs even more perfectly than usual, as if every fiber of his being is hyperconscious that the slightest error this morning will bring upon a brand new scrutiny - one he wishes, for whatever reason, to keep immaculate.

==

It’s 11am the next day, at the start of the final, when the truth reveals itself.

_Oh._

As the same hooded eyes from yesterday stare back at Atsumu from the other side of the net - after Inarizaki’s sixth failed block and third failed receive in the first set - he keeps his own gaze lowered and attempts to soothe the throbbing of already-weakening fingers. He never enjoys admitting a mistake, but the angry pink color that now cloaks Atsumu’s digits is indication of one fact and one fact only: the volleyball gods have bestowed harsh punishment upon his sin of prejudice.

The Itachiyama Ace -- _not_ manager, and now sans mask – hasn’t uttered a single word since stepping onto the court, even towards his own teammates. Instead, his stoic irises communicate all that’s necessary to effortlessly score point after point. Rather than the dark abysses they masquerade as, they’re actually the brightest beacons on the court, revealing unspoken details in this sea of moving limbs and bodies: the exact angles his receives will propel towards, the muted celebrations of every successful play, the ideal spike for any set that reaches his flying form.

And last but not least, the apparent disdain for the opposing team’s flashy setter.

Without the mask, however, said disdain is almost neutralized by far more delicate features previously hidden. Contrary to their first meeting, he looks quite a few years younger beneath the unruly curls, with a certain measure of softness enveloping otherwise sharpened angles. It's fully analogous to his style of play - each movement echoing the understated demeanor of an assassin, attracting little attention before obliterating targets with nary a word.

_Sakusa_ . Back when the scoreboard read 2-6, Atsumu had managed to dig up the palindromic surname from hazy memories of gameplay footage, complete with his coach’s dire warnings about everything that three-syllable word embodies. _Nasty ball spins, impeccable receives, utterly unshakable nerves on the court._

_By far, the top 2nd-year wing spiker in the whole country._

Somehow, he had mentally blocked out that last, very important accolade until now. Perhaps, a part of him simply could not grasp the sheer implications of someone sharing his own title, even for another position entirely. Perhaps, his mind did not wish to succumb to the pressure of facing another of his kind this soon. Perhaps, his curiosity simply desired to make its own discoveries, without any bias whatsoever.

But now, even with discovery mode in full overdrive and so much already unveiled, his talented adversary has only become a deeper mystery, urging Atsumu to seek even more clues and reach revelations that may never come.

_Vertical jump height: 3.2 to 3.4 meters. Potential spike speed: 108 to 114 km/h. Preferred trajectory---_

For the first time, his brain deviates, filing away an opponent’s likely statistics into permanent memories reserved for only comrades. His adrenaline-filled imagination goes rogue, replacing the imperfect toss given to Sakusa on the current play with his own intricately calculated one. The mirage shatters, however, once the vicious force of reality recoils off his block attempt and ventures past him into the unknown.

_Preferred trajectory: undetermined._

“Nice kill again…Sakusa-san.” Upon rebalancing himself, Atsumu grins and voices the compliment - a rare one with absolutely no sarcasm - across the net. In his peripheral, he sees both Rintarou and Osamu freeze their line of sight upon him, as if they had just witnessed a holy birth in the middle of the court.

The eyes that meet his widen briefly in surprise, but quickly return to their enigmatic state. Though he has yet to invest full effort into his usual on-court tactics, that observable shift alone makes apparent to Atsumu that such a level of focus is not easily distracted, much less disarmed.

A few rotations later, his powerful serve is easily thwarted by the most precise dug he has ever seen, courtesy of the un-distractible ace. The dump that follows from the Itachiyama captain manages to drag his motivation into a downward spiral, akin to the trajectory of the unsaved ball.

"Time out, Inarizaki!"

The pause is much needed in their current struggle to regain momentum, though Atsumu does wonder what kind of regroup would be necessary to successfully chase a score of 6-13. After all, that specific arrangement of orange lights on the scoreboard is so foreign to him - to his entire team.

For the first time all year, the coaches discuss much more specific strategies in these precious few seconds, spinning a roulette of Itachiyama player names before deciding on the gambles that must now be taken against them.

He finds himself listening intently once _Sakusa Kiyoomi_ is mentioned.

“It’s his wrists.” Rintarou offers, squeezing his own battered fingers. “They’re…bendy? Which makes his kills go all over the place.”

The others nod in agreement and confer on the best retaliation, while Atsumu writes a mental note for himself to realign his blocks and receives. Rather than mulling over tosses or victory, a new, more selfish goal emerges.

_I wanna be the first to shut you down, Sakusa Kiyoomi_.

“Quite the manager, that guy, huh?” Osamu quips just before Atsumu takes a final swig of his water bottle, causing the most ungraceful choke.

“Shuddup.”

==

He fails, and fails again, but he is getting closer.

The first set ends almost the exact way it began, with a minus-tempo attack from Sakusa that slams against three different Inarizaki limbs before deflecting out-of-bounds. The 21-25 score and their first dropped set of the tournament leaves a bitter taste in Atsumu’s mouth, but there is some solace in their semi-recovery from a 7-point deficit.

Unfortunately, they only fare slightly better the second time around, trailing slightly behind the entire way and only tying once, before ultimately losing the final two points for 22-25.

It’s a harsh realization; the fact that no matter how perfect his own tosses are, his offensive tactics will still pale in comparison to the proficiency displayed from across the net. All attacks aside, the round-browed libero has ruined at least 60 percent of the kill attempts that followed his sets, leaving Aran the most frustrated of all. Never have the blockades felt this high for them, a match so hopeless. Yet, each time his own eyes meet the Itachiyama ace’s inky depths - a more and more frequent occurrence as the match progresses - he remembers to always inject challenge into a sly smile, even if he receives little emotion in return.

_It’s only a matter of time._

The score is 6-7 in the third when the moment manifests.

The set from Iizuna is flawless, but having watched his deliveries long enough, Atsumu can now determine the exact direction it’s headed. As if on command, his feet shift two steps backward and one step to the left, positioning him within the vicinity of where he knows Sakusa will most likely attack. And when the ace makes his soaring approach, Atsumu looks straight at him from below.

_Come on, come this way_. He presents the unspoken challenge, flashing the same smile that he has conditioned his opponent into tolerating many times over.

Even through the speed of the play, the dark-haired ace’s eyes finally meet his for a mere nanosecond, and the next moments play out exactly how Atsumu had schemed.

The ball shoots towards him at what feels like terminal velocity, only this time, the colored patches upon it barely show any signs of rotation. Gone are the wild spins that had been their Achilles heel, now temporarily replaced by the standard - though still powerful - kill that the likes of Aran have sent at him countless times during practice.

He calmly combines his arms, welcoming the attack into its next temporary home before sending the ball towards the most unlikely location - the back corner of an unsuspecting Itachiyama team’s own side.

The initial slam against his skin leaves its usual burn, but the second bounce that follows mere seconds later - this time knocking against nothing but wood - provides immediate, soothing relief.

There are cheers all around the stadium and from his teammates, showcasing absolute elation for something as frivolous as one half-decent receive. But Atsumu silences them in his head in the same way he physically silences the school band. At that moment, only one thing matters, and that’s the aghast expression on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face.

It’s one he will savor for years.

“Sakusa!” The round-browed libero, Komori, walks over to Sakusa immediately, appearing more curious than concerned. Though Sakusa says nothing in response at first, he soon leads the other aside briefly for a private discussion that no one else can overhear. As Atsumu watches the two Itachiyama stars whisper and gesture with their own form of familiarity, he can’t help the faint feeling of envy that bubbles from within.

The momentum from his one brilliant play still carries through, and they squeeze by the third set 28-26, lauding him as the temporary hero and laying down the early building blocks of an upset.

It comes at the cost of Sakusa never looking at him again for the rest of the game, but Atsumu convinces himself of how little that matters.

==

It does matter, in the end.

Like a most unwitting reprisal, the loss of Sakusa’s attention quickly becomes a severe detriment to his game in the fourth set. His tosses remain precise, but they begin to lack vigor, as if depleted by unseen forces within the perimeter. The worst indirect consequence comes in the form of Komori’s digs, now with a success rate closer to 75%. He knows what the truth is; He knows that the admiration he craved from the audience has suddenly faded in importance. He knows that the part of him that fears being forgotten has completely taken over. 

He doesn’t know exactly when Sakusa’s gaze became the one he needed on him most.

At match point, a poorly-timed serve receive from Inarizaki sends the ball back into Itachiyama territory, and one well-placed touch later, Iizuna throws down the most convincing misdirect in the past few hours. The best blockers end up completely opposite of where the toss actually flies, and as Sakusa makes his feral approach, Atsumu realizes he has been left completely alone to confront his adversary one-on-one, perhaps for the last time.

Together, they soar from their own dominions, taking off against the net with their opposing agendas ready to clash. It’s just high school, it’s just a sport - but this is the InterHigh finals, and winning _does_ mean something more than just a celebration dinner afterwards.

Sakusa’s spike doesn’t even graze his arms, or anyone else’s.

22-25. Set and Match Winner: Itachiyama.

Their simultaneous descent from the air almost occurs in slow motion, allowing two pairs of eyes to hold their ground in a stubborn, separate contest from the one that had just concluded. Their faces serve as canvas for both droplets of sweat and pent-up emotions - those saved for when the ball finally ceases all movement, having played judge in this latest trial, within this court of victory and defeat.

He is defeated, but he is victorious, for he has finally earned back those eyes.

“Good game, Sakusa-san.” Atsumu turns the dial of his voice to jovial and holds out a hand. “I’ll send ya the medical bills for my sprained fingers tomorrow.”

Similar to their encounter yesterday, he expects no response - but his opponent seems always ready to surprise.

"Good game.” Sakusa states somewhat flatly, as if struggling to express those simple words. He then frowns at the offer of camaraderie, lips forming a pout that seems completely foreign to his in-game persona. “Sorry. I don't shake hands."

As the ace turns to join his team in celebration, Atsumu’s head spins, replaying that image of a _soft_ emotion somehow formed by those striking features. 

_Shit_. His heart thumps in tandem with the unspoken curses within his brain.

==

He takes a longer shower than normal, wanting to truly cleanse away the added shame of losing the final point of a championship. The team can move on - _he_ can move on - but ten extra minutes under the spraying water should make that process much easier.

Unfortunately, it also makes catching the team bus much harder, and he ends up packing up clumsily before stumbling out of the already-empty locker room, team jacket barely attached to one shoulder and half his torso. The maze of hallways that follows leads him in six different directions before he finally spots double doors resembling an exit - as well as something else.

Next to his destination, Sakusa stands against a tiled wall, one hand securely in the pocket of his sweats and the other lifted, scrolling through his phone. The mask has returned, and he once again resembles a human highlighter wishing to be left alone. But to Atsumu, this reunion feels prewritten in some sort of fated tale, and he feels intent on manipulating its plotline.

He fixes his jacket as he approaches, stopping a short distance away.

“Hey.”

Sakusa jumps at the greeting, and startled eyes only become more astonished when they eventually land on him.

“I’m gonna toss to ya one day.”

Atsumu isn’t sure what prompts him to say the sacred words, to actually voice the nagging thought that had stalked his headspace throughout the game. He knows it probably won’t be the last time he says it to someone, yet it is the first time he ever felt the audacity to do so. Maybe it stems from the envy he never admits to possessing - that desire to be on the same side of the net as the best of his generation, to always deliver a perfect toss to a perfect kill - but Miya Atsumu does not make decisions based on envy.

He makes them based on foresight.

Behind the mask, Sakusa’s reaction is difficult to decipher, but surprisingly neutral at first. His eyes scan Atsumu briefly from top-to-bottom, as if seriously evaluating his counterpart in this potential partnership, but the fleeting look is gone in a flash, replaced once more by a skeptical squint.

“You must say that to all the half-decent players...” He mumbles into white fabric.

At first, Atsumu is taken aback by the outpouring of an actual, extended sentence in his direction. But the spiker’s brutal honesty hits him soon after, and a short bout of laughter escapes his throat.

“Yah…yer’ probably right.” He says between breaths, deciding to never, ever admit that it was actually the first time. “But doesn’t make it a false promise, ya know.”

Doubt persists within Sakusa’s half-hidden expression, but before further words are exchanged, one door behind him opens, revealing the Itachiyama libero.

“Thanks for waiting, Kiyoomi-kun! Let’s go--oh, hello.”

The good-natured young man raises a hand to wave, but Sakusa immediately turns to obstruct his teammate’s vision before nudging them both back outside. The action is so swift that it catches Atsumu off-guard, but adhering to his instinct that this might be farewell, he leaves a final word.

“Remember what I said, Sakusa-san.”

Sakusa does not pause this time, and the door literally shuts on their fateful meeting.

Atsumu finds himself staring at the now-empty spot for the next few seconds, until the crunch of an apple sounds right behind him, interrupting his trance.

‘Hm.” His twin’s deadpan voice, somewhat distorted by chewing, snatches him back to reality. “Interestin’.”

Turning to confront the eavesdropper, Atsumu senses his blood pressure rising. “Dun’ scare me like that!”

“I just came to find ya since we were all waiting...and overheard ya.” Osamu shrugs. “What was that all ‘bout?”

Despite his dread about what exact words his sibling might have caught, Atsumu’s remembrance of the encounter calms him slightly.

“Just tryin’ to stay in someone’s head.” He admits. “Ya know how I don’t like to be forgotten.”

The look Osamu directs at him is beyond incredulous at first, but any disappointment in his vanity is soon replaced by genuine interest.

“And what ‘bout you? Is he in _yer_ head, ‘Tsumu?”

_Vertical jump height: 3.2 to 3.4 meters. Potential spike speed: 108 to 114 km/h. Preferred trajectory: Undetermined._

_Personality: prickly yet fascinating. Pout: adorable, maybe._

“Hell nah.” He denies with ease, all the while carefully storing this latest data collection into the most classified layer in his mind. “‘We Don’t Need the Memories,’ remember?”

Osamu squints while taking another bite of his apple.

“Ya’ve always been the _worst_ liar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s truly unfortunate that we never saw the finals match-up between Inarizaki and Itachiyama, so I took this chance to illustrate what I imagine might have happened on that day. There will be less volleyball action in the future chapters, since it will focus much more on their actual relationship development. Next up: All-Japan training camp!
> 
> Thanks for reading and feel free to leave a review! You can also come [yell about the ship with me over Twitter](https://twitter.com/_mika60_) :)
> 
> P.S. [This is how I envisioned Sakusa’s pout](https://twitter.com/giiza__/status/1286617479423254528) (Warning for Haikyuu manga ending spoilers). It’s so <3


	2. 2012, December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first reunion takes place within the hallowed grounds of the elite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read this chapter, it will be extremely helpful to refresh your memory by watching SakuAtsu’s respective scenes at the All-Japan Training Camp ([Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mj2Ysyh3WI4) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feipJoZZPp4) are two good compilations). This chapter draws heavily from the exact chronology over those few days, and most of the scenes are what I imagine took place in-between/outside of Kageyama’s perspective, which of course the canon focuses on :)
> 
> Funnily enough, earlier today we got [a new Furudate sketch which includes Sakusa’s VERY funny perspective of Atsumu at the camp](https://twitter.com/haikyu_com/status/1291689727754608641) (Furudate truly loves their dynamic! BLESS). Thankfully, it didn’t actually affect this fic-verse, so I didn’t need to change any details last minute!
> 
> Enjoy :)

One stall in the street markets of south Osaka always enchanted Atsumu as a child.

Once a month, during their occasional family visits to the city, he grabs Osamu by the wrist and rushes him through the hordes of legs barricading their path. Only when the familiar thumping of mallets against stone becomes audible does he slow down, knowing what lies just a short distance ahead.

_Boom. Boom_. The sound reverberates again and again, like ceremonial drums welcoming them to another realm. Powdered hands grip the long handles of wooden tools, swinging wide arcs that have been perfected over months and years of repetition. The mallets’ cylindrical ends knock sturdily against the supple contents that rest beneath, flattening, molding, and reshaping with a persistence akin to the strongest of warriors.

_Do you want to try?_ The stall owner finally asks one day with a grin, his teeth as white as the mochi dough his workers bring to life.

At the offer, an invasion of stars cloud Atsumu’s vision. _Let’s try! ‘Samu!!_

They’re given two smaller mallets and instruction from the more experienced, who carefully guide their arms into the movements that they played observer to so many times. The first lesson is to maintain a consistent rhythm - one pound after the other with identical swings and minimal time in-between. The dough may set too quickly otherwise, undoing hours of effort.

_Work together, trust each other - and think of it as a battle you must win._

And so he and Osamu perform as the twins they are, silently reading one another’s intentions as they engage in two simultaneous battles - one with the dough and one with their sibling. It’s a rather violent, though victimless, process, and they ultimately build camaraderie that hadn’t existed before. The mochi ending up in their mouths that day are not as delicious as the ones Atsumu usually buys, but it’s infused with the flavors of partnership and trust.

It is, no doubt, an important precursor to their inseparable relationship on the court. But today, for the first time in years, Atsumu approaches the frontlines alone.

The facade of the Ajinomoto Training Center is monotonous, though still majestic in its own style. To dwell within it signifies a milestone of sorts, a recognition that he has reached a pinnacle and can still go much further beyond. “Miya Atsumu” is written on its current list of invitees, a collective of familiar and unfamiliar names that could very well represent Japan’s future - its creators of impending glory, the victors of upcoming battles.

But this is not Osaka, and _Miya Osamu_ is not on the list.

He had teased his twin after their coach’s announcement, despite knowing that Osamu really couldn’t care less about not being chosen. But throughout the four-hour train ride and subsequent walk, the emptiness beside him was a lingering disturbance, its implications gnawing at the edges of Atsumu’s mind.

Twenty steps outside of the entrance, he pauses and sighs.

“Hey! Is that you, Miya-san?”

The cheerful tenor prompts him to turn in place, eventually coming face-to-face with the familiar rounded eyebrows from a lost match months ago.

“Miya-san from Inarizaki, right?” The brunette approaches him with little hesitation, as if greeting an old friend. The familiar colors of his sweats warrants no second guess as to his school of origin, but despite having seen the complete list of training camp attendees, Atsumu’s mind takes just a second too long to retrieve his full identity.

“Sorry, we never got to say hello back in July.” The young man smiles sheepishly. “I’m Komori Motoya, from Itachiyama. I think you know Sakusa Kiyoomi, my cousin and teammate?”

_Komori...2nd year...#1 high school libero in Japan…cousin...oh,_ COUSIN _._ The cogs in his brain finally all click into place, and the last detail, for whatever reason, evokes Atsumu to smile wider than usual.

“Yes, I remember.” He returns the cheerfulness, any previous unease temporarily forgotten. “‘twas a great game, Komori-san, but we will beat ya next time.”

Komori’s expression brightens even further. “I sure hope we play you again! Since that would mean we both make it to the finals next month, too.”

The reminder about the Spring Tournament sends a thrill through Atsumu's spine. It is yet another chance to prove Inarizaki’s prowess on a national stage. He will toss perfectly to the cheers of a large audience, and Osamu will be back at his side. Of course, the opportunity to avenge their previous loss is a bonus, as is the possibility of encountering a certain pair of enigmatic eyes - ones currently missing in action.

“Are ya da only one from Itachiyama at this camp?” Atsumu feigns ignorance. Having seen all the names attending the camp, he already knows what the libero’s response will be. But the need to be certain suddenly feels urgent.

“No, Kiyoomi-kun also! But he had to run an errand for his sister, so we didn’t come together.” Komori easily quashes the momentary fear that had surfaced within Atsumu. “He almost didn’t want to come at all, but our coach and I convinced him to in the end.”

He chuckles with partial relief. “Sakusa-san seems...like an interesting person, huh?”

“Ha...Kiyoomi-kun is not the easiest to get along with.” The libero’s answer is smoothly delivered, as if he has uttered those same words dozens of times before. “But I’ve known him since we were both little, and he has a very good heart. He just puts 1000% into volleyball and often has high expectations, which makes him seem...unfriendly? But in the end, you could even say that our school motto is named after him, haha.”

_Effort_. Atsumu’s memory draws up the familiar calligraphy, its backdrop hanging blatantly below the stands during their last match. He wonders if Sakusa feels pressured at all, or if - like Atsumu himself - he simply thrives from the attention and exploits his skills to elevate the rest of the team.

“Being at the top of your game can definitely…change how your mind works.”

Komori laughs heartily. “We should both know firsthand, right?”

While the envy Atsumu had felt towards Sakusa’s closeness with the libero already dissipated, he now finds himself admiring the carefree nature currently on display.

“You know, it would be great if he made some more friends like you in this circle of ours.” Komori mulls on his own suggestion, a hand moving to grip his chin. “Maybe we’ll all be teammates someday, so might as well start getting to know each other better, right?”

“As long as we dun’ hate each other’s guts after these next few days!” The optimism in Komori’s tone proves infectious, and though Atsumu finds himself joking about the times at hand, his mind does race with the possibility of the described scenario years down the road. 

“I’ll try to make sure we all get along, then!” The libero’s beamed assurance is accompanied by a raised palm. “Please take care of us!”

Atsumu completes the high five with a sincere grin.

“Oh, just one thing.” When their hands meet, Komori’s eyes suddenly open into a more serious expression. “This may sound strange, but try not to…touch Kiyoomi-kun for now? Unless he lets you? He does take some time to get used to that...even high-fives.”

Atsumu pauses at the unexpected request. Though in the past months his mind has drifted often towards the Itachiyama ace, the musings always centered around his immaculate form in the air or the power of his spikes. Only through Komori’s words does Atsumu realize that he knows little to nothing of this mysterious figure occupying his thoughts, someone whose many facets have yet to reveal themselves to him.

“I’ll...respect his space.” He responds easily.

Komori sighs in relief. “That’s already more than he can ask for. Heh.”

==

Sakusa slips into the training center with barely a few minutes to spare, his footsteps leading him immediately in Komori’s direction. From what Atsumu can detect from across the gymnasium, little has changed since their last encounter. The slightly slouched silhouette that creates the illusion of shorter height, the curtain of dark curls that barely conceal pinched features, the mask that adheres to his face like a second skin - it almost relieves Atsumu to see such consistency, as if Sakusa exists as one of the few constants in his own volatile life, exiting and entering its timeline like a traveler of dimensions.

Almost unconsciously, Atsumu begins to wander in his direction, but his plans are quickly derailed by the coaches’ request for all players to gather. He obeys, of course, but keeps Sakusa within his periphery at every step. Before heeding to the call himself, the spiker curls fingers around a loop of his mask and removes it delicately. His expression immediately softens, as if released from confinement; and when a smiling Komori voices something Atsumu cannot hear, the lips that so recently gained freedom actually bend upward, forming the faintest of smiles.

Atsumu looks away and speeds up.

He positions himself in the front row, listening intently to the welcoming messages and the self-introductions that begin minutes later. _Hoshiumi Kourai, Kamomedai. Chigaya Eikichi, Shinzen. Kageyama Tobio, Karasuno._ When his turn arrives, he spins to face the others -- and nearly jumps when he recognizes Sakusa standing right behind him, with Komori to his left, still grinning.

“Miya Atsumu.” He smirks back at them both and punctuates his words. “Inarizaki.”

A thumbs up from one cousin, a suspicious glower from the other.

_How are they even related?_

When he returns to his original spot, with the duo at his heels again, Atsumu straightens his posture more than before.

Soon, the introductions end, followed by brief greetings between both friends and rivals alike. He cordially engages with those next to him, intentionally saving the pair behind for last. By the time he turns to complete his rounds, however, only one of his shadows - now masked once more - remain.

“Come with me.” Sakusa mutters under his breath, walking briskly past him towards an exit.

He scoffs, not of pride but of amusement. A quick glanceover around him shows that no one is paying attention, so he enters the brief pursuit, heading towards both an unknown destination and an unknown conversation.

As soon as they hit sunlight, Sakusa leans back against the adjacent wall.

Atsumu slowly shuts the door behind him as he speaks. “Hey. Good to see ya, to---”

The interruption comes at lightning speed. “How serious were you?”

Atsumu’s mind fails to process the sudden words.

“’bout...what?”

The frown upon dark features deepens, combined with an exasperated sigh. “You’re joking, right?”

“I haven’t seen ya in literally _months_ ,” Atsumu protests, his own expression twisting into a scowl. “How am I supposed to remem—"

Sakusa bounces off the brick surface like a snapped rubber band, returning to the route from which he had just come. “Forget it.”

“Hey! Wai—” A momentary lapse in judgement provokes Atsumu to extend his hand, instinctually fighting to keep the escapee in place.

He recognizes his error when Sakusa flinches at the motion.

“Sorry, sorry.” He snatches his hand back just as quickly, a genuine apology on his lips. “Komori-san warned me ya didn’t wanna be touched. M’bad.”

Rather than anger, Sakusa’s face communicates surprise. “You two spoke? When…?”

Atsumu stuffs both hands into his pockets to prevent another mishap. “We ran into each other before coming inside. He remembered me from Interhigh, when I told ya to not forget my promis— _oh_.” Realization hits him then like a highspeed train. “Wait, is _that_ whatcha thought about this whole time? Me tossin’ to ya?”

The spiker falls silent. Behind thin fabric, Atsumu can see the outline of his mouth, shaping into the same pout that caused his heart palpitations after their previous match. The shyness almost endears him even more than the notion that Sakusa had considered his words seriously - going as far as manifesting this moment all these months later. _A LINE message might have been easier,_ he muses.

“So what if it is?” Sakusa finally says, with far more volume than a LINE message.

“Well. We can…we can start tomorrow already, ya?!” He hates that he sounds giddy, like he had just been confessed to by his middle school crush. _Oh, Atsumu-kun, I accept your confession. Let’s date!_ It’s not exactly the same situation, but his heart _is_ racing again, so he will welcome this without prejudice. “I’m sure we’ll end up on the same assembled team at some point this week, so I can already start there.”

“Do whatever you want…” Before Atsumu’s excitement swells too far, Sakusa tames it masterfully, his supposed indifference enveloping them both before he reopens the door.

As his chosen spiker for the week finally completes a successful escape, Atsumu feels his pride returning, any insecurities around the loss of Osamu temporarily forgotten. “Just don’t get spoiled by my tosses, a’right?” He yells without humility at Sakusa’s departing figure. “Ya won’t find betta ones ‘nywhere else.”

==

As their destinies outside of the camp already foreordained, they end up opposing each other at first.

Atsumu is left gaping at the action from across the net, eyes tracking the volleyball as it journeys from the hands of other setters into Sakusa’s hands. He tries to not get distracted by what follows, though somehow, the visual of Sakusa spiking while not in uniform gives off a different sort of energy - one that he finds harder and harder to look away from.

Despite that detail, he is struck with surprise when, six plays into the match, he is finally in the right place to receive the signature attack himself. But similar to the one fluke from their Interhigh match, no rotation rubs against his skin on contact, and he returns the ball to the opposite court with little extra effort.

_He’s not...revealing his true skill level right now?_

He can tell from the whispers around him that others are also starting to become skeptical, especially as most have never actually played against Sakusa Kiyoomi in a match. A part of Atsumu wants to defend in a joking manner, as he can usually do successfully. But whenever he notices Sakusa’s stoic eyes giving away little emotion, and how his ears seem to be immune to all opinion, he decides to reserve his own comments for another day. If the decision is indeed strategic, Atsumu knows they are both on similar wavelengths - he has softened his serves more than usual as well, not wanting to show off the most secret of his weapons just yet.

Besides Sakusa, the Karasuno prodigy is also struggling - only his is very much real. The rookie’s overly polite demeanor and old habits find little footing upon the perilous foundations of an elite game, where any insecurities can be exploited at the drop of a dime. Though Atsumu senses Kageyama Tobio’s potential to become his biggest threat at the setter position, he predicts that it will not be this year - especially after, to Atsumu’s own frustration, one too many missed tosses meant for Sakusa. Still, he makes a mental note to test the rookie’s boundaries eventually, as his strategy of disarm and dominate seldom fails.

One set later, his younger rival rotates to the second court, and the subsequent reassignments finally bring Sakusa to Atsumu’s team.

“Ya ready for me?” He passes the ball back-and-forth between two palms as Sakusa slips under the net to join his side. “Promise I won’t screw it up like that Karasuno 1st year.”

Seemingly deaf to this comment as well, Sakusa barely gives him a passing glance before moving to his court position.

Despite the cold reception, Atsumu grins to himself as he mentally recaps what is needed to perfect that first toss.

_Vertical jump height: 3.2 to 3.4 meters. Potential spike speed: 108 to 114 km/h. Preferred Trajectory---_

_Preferred Trajectory: whatever he wants._

When Komori’s first receive floats toward him effortlessly, the pop of his fingers against the ball feels like a fulfillment of destiny.

“Sakusa!”

His target is already halfway in the air, though instead of tracking the toss the entire way, his eyes focus on Atsumu’s for at least half a second before concentrating on his mission.

The spike adopts a feral identity as soon as the snap of Sakusa’s wrist propels it, the dual-tone of its surface blending into shades of green as it flashes past two All-Japan-level middle blockers and slams into the ground like a meteorite. Gaping mouths soon become a common trait among all who witness the scene, and every line of sight points to the landing spot, as if trying to determine whether a crater had been left behind.

Atsumu is no exception.

_Was that...a 120+ km kill…?_

Sakusa merely rubs his palms together twice, still willfully ignorant to the commotion he had just produced. Contrary to the previous set, the whispers begin to take on a completely different tone.

_“Sakusa Kiyoomi is no joke after all…”_

_“Our ace can’t even come close to that!”_

_“Itachiyama is first seed for good reason…”_

And to Atsumu’s satisfaction, there is a certain subset of chatter that doesn’t neglect him.

_“Ah...the number 1 setter in high school and the number 1 spiker of 2nd years...what a dangerous pair…”_

_“Have they played together before? How was that so perfect??”_

Before his container of bubbling pride overlows, Sakusa paces past him and releases its valve.

“Miya.” His face shows no sign of the bedazzlement from their fellow players. “One more time.”

It doesn’t occur to Atsumu until later that this is the first time Sakusa has addressed him by name, that the acknowledgment would glow in his mind for hours like the incandescence of a firefly. At the moment, the trained athlete side of his brain comprehends only that order to repeat, and so he obliges - again, and again, and again.

It’s euphoric, seeing that seamless transition he mastered over the years blossom into wild bullets at Sakusa’s whim. That electric speed of the ball as it crashes into unprepared muscle and deflects in the strangest directions, shaming even the greatest defender on the court. It’s different from the finishes of his own teammates, whose spike trajectories he can already predict down to the millimeter. It’s even more different from anyone else at this elite camp, where the unintentional arrogance of each wing spiker is dialed up to maximum volume. Here, they all receive his perfect sets as if they _deserved_ such a gift, as if the ball was automatically drawn to their self-affirmed magnetism, instead of carefully curated and delivered.

Sakusa is different. He watches Atsumu’s sets second-by-second, analyzing trajectory and potential thoroughly before he ever takes off into the air. He understands that he is receiving a buffet of options at no charge, an already-exquisite portrait that’s merely awaiting one final brushstroke to complete.

Sakusa watches _him_.

He isn’t sure if this is some kind of special treatment, or if this is simply part of what makes Sakusa Kiyoomi the ace that he is. _But either way_ , Atsumu decides, _either way is just fine for now_. With each taste of success, a phantom flavor of powdery sweetness emerges on his tongue, echoing the same satisfaction he had earned alongside his sibling on the street market years ago.

The battles have moved from the stall to the courts, and together, they are winning them all.

==

The set concludes heavily in their favor, 25-15, with more than half the points stemming from their rather invincible one-two punch. Neither high-fives nor words are shared between them throughout the dominant progress - Atsumu knows better than to even initiate - but he does win the favor of the coaches, which at least fulfills his other goal for the first day.

“You two were incredible!” Komori jogs towards them as soon as the whistle sounds, slapping Atsumu on the shoulder while flashing his customary thumbs up at Sakusa.

The compliment sounds unnecessarily honest, and Sakusa turns his head away at an angle where Atsumu cannot see his reaction. As expected, he’s forced to respond to Komori alone, but if there is one thing Atsumu knows he is good at, it’s taking advantage of a situation.

“Feels kinda meant to be, doesn’t it?” He pairs the suggestive words with a wide smile, fully intending to fluster his silent partner. As if on cue, he sees the fists at the end of Sakusa’s now-stiff arms clench.

“Definitely!” Any double meaning seems to go over Komori’s head. “Also, I thought your shoulder wasn’t feeling so comfortable, Kiyoomi-kun? Seems like it’s all better already.”

Sakusa immediately starts to walk away, his raven curls bouncing at the abrupt movement. 

“It’s still bugging me, so I’m going to my room.” His only words of the afternoon barely form a farewell.

As they watch the tall figure leave, Komori smiles at Atsumu apologetically. “Ah...maybe I said something wrong.”

“Nah, prob’ly me. I’ll go fix things.” Atsumu admits, and suddenly finds himself in pursuit without a single plan in mind. Behind him, Komori voices some type of warning, but it’s nothing his brain actually processes.

He has never felt the need to chase after anything. Ever since volleyball infiltrated every aspect of his life, fame and attention always trailed him into even the most secluded alleys. But here and now, right after the heat of battle and the high of victory, he still feels terribly unfulfilled. For the first time in a long while, he had discovered something extraordinary, something injecting extra vigor into his veins - only to be left behind.

_Don’t forget me_.

He reaches the hallway by the time he catches up with Sakusa, and Atsumu begins to walk backwards, allowing reversed steps to fall in line with the spiker’s. The first question that escapes his lips is one he seldom even asks a teammate, but with their absence, as well as the lack of Osamu’s taunts at the back of his neck, he succumbs to the urge to seek approval.

“So, how was all that for ya?”

His attempt at making conversation is met by only wider strides, forcing Atsumu to turn and face forward again as he continues walking.

“I’m just curious, Sakusa.” He insists again, more earnestly this time.

Sakusa neither slows down nor looks in his direction, but his lips do finally part. “The one you set at 11-5 had too much height on it.”

Atsumu is struck by the rather specific memory, especially as he himself can no longer remember that exact toss. The fact that Sakusa does, however, brings a sort of solace for any previous doubts.

“And the rest...?” He decides to push his luck as they round a corner together.

“The rest were...fine.”

“Just ‘fine?’” He snickers. “Not the best tosses ya’ve ever received?”

Sakusa suddenly stops in front of a door, and before Atsumu can halt his own movements, a key has already slipped into the lock, releasing the barrier to prematurely end their exchange.

“Later, Miya.”

The door shuts on him, paralleling how the room’s occupant has just cut off their conversation. And as he stares at the solid wood, Atsumu feels like a toss has finally missed its mark, squandering a chance to connect. 

The notion stalks him into his own room, hovers over the duvet when he attempts to nap, and taunts him with its defects.

==

Around dinnertime, Atsumu witnesses an unexpected confrontation between Sakusa and the Karasuno setter. He stands behind a pillar as he munches on his pear, drinking in every single word.

_Wakatoshi-kun_ jumps out the most.

Sakusa exits the conversation, mumbling about germs and baths just as he passes the pillar. Atsumu steps out then, determined to not allow his earlier perceptions of detachment to besiege the rest of his day.

“Did the Karasuno 1st Year really just call ya ‘normal?’” He grins with one raised eyebrow. “Then again, I guess he did change courts today before seeing how well we played together.”

Contrary to the pursuit of their earlier encounters, Sakusa actually stops this time, gaze unfocused as if mulling on the memory. Komori, who had trailed him closely behind, expresses momentary surprise, looks between the two of them, and walks off in his own direction without a second word.

Having not seen his cousin’s antics, the spiker’s eyes soon shift toward Atsumu, hints of displeasure stirring within. “Speak for yourself, Miya. Your serves...were nowhere near how I remember them.”

_Oho?_ Try as he may, Atsumu can’t quash his excitement at being able to draw out these memories little by little. It feels like creaking open heavy gates to a restricted property that few visitors have stepped foot in, and he longs to discover exactly how much has been buried on its grounds.

“Ya got me.” He laughs wholeheartedly. “I’m kinda honored that ya were payin’ attention.”

To Atsumu’s surprise, Sakusa doesn’t deny his claim. Instead, his masked expression goes from lightly scornful to serious, as if regaining the concentration they possess on the court. “I think we can both agree that it’s wise to not show all your cards to future opponents…”

“What ‘bout the quick we kept showing off today, then?”

“Doesn’t matter if we’re not on the same team outside of here, Miya.”

“Not _yet_.”

The bold statement seems to unsettle Sakusa, whose eyes begin to betray an inexplicably different emotion, similar to when Atsumu had offered his setter services back in July. The glint, however, is gone in a flash, and as is Sakusa himself.

It unnerves Atsumu that while the Itachiyama ace can barely be shaken on the court, he is a completely different story outside of it. For years, he has become used to projecting nuclear energy and receiving at least something miniscule in return. But now, having experienced the stagnant progress of their off-court relationship, he still cannot make sense of this stoic wall of a human being, where all momentum in the universe apparently comes to cease. As such, Atsumu finds himself rushing after Sakusa for the third time in the same day, unwilling to abandon whatever has begun cultivating between them.

“By the way, is what Komori-kun said back there true?” He quickly draws up another question, hoping to slow Sakusa’s steps despite knowing the futility from recent experience. “That ya need to know everythin’ about anyone who could be a threat to ya?”

“Like I told them, I’m just cautious.” Ahead of him, the mumble sounds from behind the mask.

“So why haven’t ya asked me anything?”

“You’re already an open book.” Sakusa’s steps do not lose momentum. “I barely need to read your sets because they’re custom-made for me every time. I can tell.”

“Ah...right.” He feels comforted at the unexpected accuracy. “I toss to a top-five ace on my own team, so a top-three like you doesn’t feel too different in the end.”

His own comment about aces triggers the memory of another particular detail from his recent eavesdrop. And before Atsumu can stop himself, the question lodged in his throat for the past ten minutes makes its candid escape.

“So are ya...close with Ushijima? From Shiratorizawa?” He asks as casually as he can manage. “Ya called him ‘Wakatoshi-kun’ earlier…”

What follows is, as far as Atsumu is concerned, a basic equivalent to the nuclear reaction he had sought out - though not one he had expected at this very moment. It starts with Sakusa freezing so swiftly that Atsumu almost slams into his torso. When the ace’s neck twists to bring them about-face again, the newly-formed flush across his cheeks is undeniable. A swallow then travels down his pale throat, followed by a series of harsher breaths. Behind the mask, Atsumu can see lips arrange themselves into a shape of annoyance, as if preparing to complain, but the words that soon come through end up much simpler.

_“Good night_ , Miya.” The farewell is stern, final.

Atsumu does not pursue him further.

It stings a little, to still be referred to by his surname, and to be left alone to interpret that kind of response. He stands in the middle of the corridor, failing to fathom how the mere mention of the Southpaw ace would elicit such a reaction from the ever-unyielding Sakusa Kiyoomi. At the same time, he isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.

_It’s just a name_. He tells himself. Perhaps if Osamu were here at the camp, if everyone was forced to address them by their first names, he would’ve never had to ask - and things would be different now. Suddenly, he misses his twin, even if not for the right reasons.

_It’s just a name._

==

**Samu** **  
** _How’s it going, All-Japan Elite Setter? Miss me yet?_ _  
  
_

_Not at all. I found someone_

**Samu** _  
_ _I thought you were at a training camp? Did you accidentally end up at a group date?_ _  
  
_

_Someone to TOSS to, dumbass_

**Samu** _  
_ _You’re with a bunch of the top players, and you only found ONE you can toss to?_ _  
_ _I thought your social skills and volleyball skills were better than that_

_  
_ **Samu** **  
** _Oh shit_ _  
_ _it’s the Itachiyama guy isn’t it_

  
He can practically hear Osamu’s deadpan voice on the other side of the phone, so Atsumu puts the message thread on mute.

He no longer misses his twin.

Day two begins with a few new match-ups, and the coaches - who seem to have taken strong interest in the formidable pairing he comprises half of - continue to put him and Sakusa on the same teams. Though their opponents seem more prepared than 24 hours past, the attacks still penetrate with ease. In between sets, however, his partner does little more than drift into the corner to towel off and rehydrate, as if the two of them hadn’t just cemented themselves as serious candidates for future National Team spots. Atsumu soon realizes that their respective talents are a sort of detriment - since they can execute the skill with such little communication and great success rate, there is no need to confer with each other for any adjustments.

He has never found perfection to be such a nuisance. 

What also lingers in his thoughts is the way the Karasuno setter had belittled Sakusa the night before, so he finds Kageyama Tobio in the evening and gives him a piece of his mind in front of an audience. It backfires somewhat, however, when the 1st year interprets his “goody-two-shoes” comment as cause for motivation rather than a backhanded compliment.

When Sakusa completes an awe-inspiring attack via Kageyama’s toss in the next game, earning vocal approval from the coaches, Atsumu wipes the extra droplets of sweat that emerge on his forehead.

==

**Samu**  
_Apparently there is an Inari shrine near the training center._ _  
_ _Go pray at it if you continue to suck._  
  


On the second evening, he musters up the courage to set his dinner tray down at the corner table of the dining area, already filled with two occupants.

“Is this seat taken?” He stands over an empty chair, tone fully rhetorical.

“Nope! Come join us, Atsumu-kun.” Komori beams and shifts slightly in the other direction to make room, his chopsticks weaving through clumps of ramen like knitting needles.

To his left, a seated Sakusa hastily shoves his chair backward.

“I’m finished.”

Komori swiftly places a hand on his cousin’s tray to hold it in place. “You just got here, too, Ki-yo-omi-kun.” His tone is teasing, with a tinge of accusation as he regards his cousin’s barely-eaten bowl of oyakodon.

With a deep sigh, Sakusa returns to his original position. When his eyes meet Atsumu’s briefly across the table, Atsumu flashes a cordial smile that is not returned.

Komori begins chattering lively then, about the variety of food options the camp has, who the best high school players not at the camp are - Atsumu leaves out Osamu’s name on his list - and how Kamomedai’s all-arounder is going to be one-to-watch next month. Next to him, Sakusa does not contribute any of his own thoughts, but through the generous breaks he takes between each bite of his rice bowl, Atsumu knows he’s listening intently.

When the oyakodon is about half-eaten, Atsumu clears his throat.

“Sakusa. How were my tosses to ya today?”

“Fine.” The answer comes with a few seconds’ delay.

“That’s all? Again?” Atsumu chuckles. “Do ya even remember them?”

Sakusa’s frown deepens, his mouth shaping into that all-too mesmerizing, disapproving pout. Slowly, he places his chopsticks back onto the tray with an almost uncomfortable care, and orbs of obsidian glare back at Atsumu in challenge.

“I remember every single one.”

Atsumu’s smile fades slightly, almost taken aback by the confession. Despite the coldness of the answer, his heart somehow feels warm as it revels in the blunt assurance. He’s half-certain that he is blushing, but he hopes that the warmth of the food around them can mask it as something else. An awkward silence ensues, with Komori’s mouth hanging open between their staring contest, barely halfway to wolfing down another slurp of ramen.

“Uh well...Kageyama was a really good setter too!” Their unintentional mediator abandons his noodles in favor of changing the subject. “He struggled a bit yesterday, but I think he’s back on the right track.”

_I shouldn’t have provoked the kid_. Though still at the tailend of his elation, Atsumu can’t help but click his tongue in irritation. 

“I think you guys all tried to intimidate him too much just because we’re older.” Komori continues with a playful tone. “He’s a good-hearted and talented junior in the end!”

Sakusa folds his arms then, looking downward in deep contemplation. “I still don’t understand how he could’ve beaten Wakatoshi-kun…”

_It’s just a name_.

Atsumu shoves the plague of a thought to the back of his mind before it infects too deeply again. “Probably a fluke.” He shrugs. “I doubt Karasuno will make it past the first round come January.”

“Itachiyama will make sure they don’t go far.” Sakusa declares with conviction, seemingly subscribing to Atsumu’s theory. The connection, though small, feels almost more meaningful than the dozens of attacks they've completed.

“Well, if either of our schools play Karasuno, let’s root for each other!” Komori claps once as he exclaims, voice full of relief that there is finally some agreement at the table.

“I’ll willingly risk the wrath of our cheering squad to come support ya.” Atsumu throws a clump of rice into his mouth, swallowing before he speaks again. “I _might_ just be expendable enough for them to make me a livin’ sacrifice, but I’ll manage.”

Komori guffaws loudly at the joke, and Atsumu swears that the tiniest smile in the universe sneaks its way onto Sakusa’s face.

“All in all, let’s have a rematch of Interhigh finals again.” He concludes with a tilt of his head. “We won’t go easy on ya this time.”

“Deal!”

Next to the delighted acceptance from the libero, Sakusa sends him a curt nod. As slight as the movement is, Atsumu knows that it represents momentum towards something he cannot name, a mutuality standing at the other side of half-opened gates.

==

The final practice matches present the ultimate challenge, where long-standing positions are switched in favor of building individual versatility. While the past few days have welded together previous disconnects between players into the dutiful parts of magnificent machines, the change-ups reveal minor, new flaws that they will all have to reexamine once they return to their home teams.

Atsumu plays libero - with Komori encouraging him throughout the morning - but he still tosses a few times out of habit and necessity. The last ones directed towards Sakusa remain exact and powerful, stamping a solid footnote on their alliance - lest anyone in the gym still possesses doubt. Their final quick comes when their side is three points away from victory, and the ball lands in the upper stands after a wild deflection off of desperately raised arms. As Atsumu watches the rather majestic flight arc from below, the only taste lingering on his tongue is bittersweet.

Kageyama Tobio also finds his center just in time, and even Atsumu feels impressed.

_Serious, honest, and all-around good kid_. He decides to tell the young prodigy at the very end, echoing Komori’s compliments the night before. Though tempted, Atsumu refrains from also sharing his personal determination to defeat Karasuno, if fate would allow them to meet.

He hopes the Itachiyama duo will abide by their promise to support.

As players begin to trickle out of the gymnasium, he scans the room for a familiar yellow shirt, seeking formal conclusion to the brief but successful partnership that has left him coveting more. Seconds later, Atsumu finally spots the bright attire on its own, its wearer still seated close to the west gymnasium wall. As with his usual routine, Sakusa flexes his wrists against flooring before lying down for additional stretches, and Atsumu takes the opportunity to move closer. When he eventually crouches down next to the spiker’s reclining form, he’s surprised that the other doesn’t get up or roll away.

“Ya got spoiled by my tosses after all.” He calls back to his own warning from a few days past.

Sakusa pulls a knee against his chest, not looking anywhere in Atsumu’s direction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The one Hoshiumi sent ya - the one you took extra seconds to think about.” He almost feels fond at the memory. “You were expecting something better.”

He voices it as a statement, not a guess, and Sakusa sits up then, palms flattening against the ground for support. “I’m just selective. Hoshiumi’s still good at setting, which makes him dangerous.”

“And me? How were my tosses tod--”

“ _Enough_.” A deep frown accompanies the complaint. “Stop asking - and worrying so much.”

It takes Atsumu a moment to realize that indeed, he has repeated that same question more than enough times for comfort. This appetite for recognition is not exactly foreign, but only a hidden part of him knows why there’s such worth to this particular response.

_Because it’s a toss to_ you _, Sakusa Kiyoomi_.

“You already know how good you are, Miya.” The namesake of his thoughts continues the reprimand, stringing together longer sentences than average in his frustration. “You saw for yourself how all my kills ended up the past few days. Why do you need more validation about your tosses than that?”

The interrogation is so direct, so penetrating that Atsumu wonders if he had accidentally said his earlier thought out loud. A mental scramble stirs his confidence as he struggles to respond, for once unable to summon the ideal words.

“I just...wanna know if ya rememb--”

_Just to remember, Atsumu? Just to not be forgotten?_

It dawns on him then, a revelation as clear as the sunny, carefree days in Osaka - _the sound of mallets knocking against stone, the splash of flour before it flies into his cheeks, the unconditional faith in his counterpart as they create something wondrous together._

“--I just wanna know...if ya _trusted_ them. My tosses.”

Sakusa inhales sharply, holds the breath for a second too long, and sighs. His eyebrows gradually reverse direction, outlining a portrait of genuine concern.

“If I didn’t trust them, why would I even spike them?” 

_Osamu enjoys their productive activity, the swing of his mallet perfectly in sync each time. He doesn’t question when or where Atsumu would hit next. He stuffs himself full of mochi. He laughs. He jumps. He performs his side of their Soul Swap Delayed Spike with ease. He trusts Atsumu._

“You want your spiker to trust you unconditionally.” Sakusa’s deep voice clouds over Atsumu’s reveries like a scripted narration. “But do you trust _me_? For me to finish up whatever you send my way?”

_Sakusa Kiyoomi watches him. He analyzes the tosses, but he remembers each one and takes none for granted. He follows up with attacks that lack a single ounce of doubt. He reads Atsumu like an open book._

“If the reason you keep asking is because you don’t trust me, that’s fine.” Folding his long legs, the spiker begins to lift himself off the ground. “You won’t have to toss to me again after today, anyhow.”

The extension of Atsumu’s arm is instinctual and firm, in the same manner as how Komori had halted Sakusa’s escape from the dinner table.

“Wait.”

When the haze of his own running thoughts fades, Atsumu is momentarily terrified at the placement of his palm upon Sakusa’s clothed shoulder. The burden of such a grave sin nearly weighs him down, but the right words arrive on his tongue at that very moment, reopening any gates that threatened to shut.

“Yer the best ace I’ve played with.” He professes, honor and humility permeating every syllable. “I trust ya. Fully.”

Sakusa does not budge, despite the physical contact. Instead, his opposite arm hesitantly reaches across his torso, hovering a hand slightly above where Atsumu’s own rests. While holding his gaze, Atsumu actually sees hints of warm amber gleam between the charcoal depths - they reflect neither the thirst for victory nor the fear of defeat, but rather the strength of allegiance that triumphs over both.

“Miya.”

The hand claps against Atsumu’s knuckle gently - once, twice - before moving away.

“I trust you, too.”

==

He still hasn’t reached given name status, but it’s enough.

As he finishes packing his belongings, Atsumu flips one final time onto the mattress that had hosted his fatigued body for the last few nights. The knuckle that had been touched by Sakusa still burns - a welcomed consequence of his careless first contact, simmering its way throughout his nerves. To distract from the sensation, he grips a volleyball that had somehow snuck its way into his room during the week and tosses it towards the ceiling, creating useless parabolas that only return to himself. Likewise, his thoughts circle round and around, constantly replaying the same scenes in a neverending carousel.

_I trust you, too._

It’s as if those heavy gates have opened entirely, giving him complete access to the sacred grounds mapping Sakusa Kiyoomi. And yet, the secrets buried within - beneath the soil he continues to chip away at - are only Atsumu’s own.

The muscles of his heart thump against his ribcage, painfully demanding freedom from entrapment. In the months between Interhigh and now, his thoughts toward Sakusa had leaned heavily platonic, with admiration at their core. But now, through the meaningful words exchanged between them and the supremacy of their partnership, the plates forming the foundation Atsumu had stood so solidly on have shifted beyond their means. As he watches the redundant trajectory of the flying ball, the images his blinks open to are unrelentingly clear: silhouette of a figure mid-flight, intense features that paint over pale skin, subtle quirks of a brow, a lip, a spoken phrase.

He breathes in each image and holds the air tight in his chest.

The clock in his room generates the only other detectable sound, its second hand ticking onward to move the rest of the universe ahead.

_28 days_. The countdown to Spring Nationals.

_3 hours._ The minimum travel time by train between Amagasaki and Tokyo.

_10 minutes._ The amount still left until the deadline to depart the Center.

For today, he decides that he wants more time.

On the nightstand, his phone vibrates with a new message alert, illuminating a lightbulb within his head.

==

He times his farewell to Kageyama perfectly - just a few steps ahead of the Itachiyama duo, who exit the double sliding doors mere seconds behind him. When all three of them reach the parking lot, breaths steaming from the slight chill, Atsumu puts his haphazard plan into action.

“Are ya both heading home? Or do ya have some time ta’ spare?” He turns in their direction, flashing a signature smile.

“I think so!”

“Depends...”

His fellow 2nd years answer simultaneously, their opposing responses exactly as predicted.

“I heard from ‘Samu that there is actually an Inari shrine not far from here.” He unearths the random suggestion courtesy of his twin’s mocking text. “Would ya...be able to bring me there? Just thought I’d visit it before I take off.”

Sakusa squints. “Just use the map on your phon--”

Komori quickly grabs ahold of his cousin’s arm, projecting his own excitement far above the admittedly logical suggestion.

“We would love to!”

And so they set off on the spontaneous field trip, a trio of giraffes hiking through narrow, inclined streets, easily drawing the attention of random grandmothers and young children along the way. A few minutes into the journey, Komori admits that he actually has no clue where the shrine is, either, so Atsumu whips out his phone anyway. Thankfully, they had at least been moving in the right direction, and in a twist of fate, the Hyogo native becomes the one to guide the two Kanto locals instead. Similar to their one shared meal, the shorter young man finds every topic in the world to keep a conversation flowing, while Sakusa trails behind, remaining mum.

“When you had to play my position earlier, you were really good, Atsumu-kun!” Komori reminisces on the final hours of practice. “Me playing setter, on the other hand--”

“Ya did just fine.” The white lie slithers easily from Atsumu’s tongue before he glances over his shoulder. “Sakusa, too.”

Meeting his eyes, the spiker shrugs. “Middle blocker isn’t too different from wing spiker in the end…”

“I remember that you and your twin brother could change up your positions so easily. I had a hard time during our Interhigh match dealing with that, haha…” Komori’s memories drift further and further back in time. “But it’s great to have a relative to practice with you all the time, isn’t it? I feel like that’s how Kiyoomi-kun and I improved so much over the years.”

“Oh? Did ya practice with each other like ‘Samu and me?”

“Yes, quite a lot. I definitely credit Kiyoomi-kun with my receiving skills!” The generous comment is followed by some head scratches. “But...I didn’t help him much with kills…he could’ve used a good setter like Atsumu-kun instead, I think.”

Atsumu snorts and looks behind at Sakusa again. Not surprisingly, the spiker rolls his eyes, but the rest of his expression remains hidden behind the mask.

He turns back to Komori. “Not sure if yer cousin would agree with ya, ha…”

“Sure he would!” Komori twists his neck this time. “Kiyoomi-kun, didn’t you tell me after Interhigh that Atsumu-kun’s sets were the be---”

“ _Motoya_.”

The offhand use of Komori’s given name alongside Sakusa’s death glare is practically a threat, and a chill invades the air around them as the warning sounds. The cheerful libero flushes, steps slowing to a halt before stammering his next words.

“Ah...right, never mind what I said...”

Now a few steps ahead, Atsumu watches the scene with interest, as well as a hundred new questions swimming within his brain.

_Were the...what? The best? Does he really remember every single one, even from back then…?_

But in order to save Komori’s life, he pretends to have not heard the slip-up at all.

“Hey, what are ya two doin’? Let’s keep goin’ - we’re almost there.”

Heeding his reminder, the cousins quickly break away from their awkward exchange, returning themselves to the voyage at hand. Komori also returns to his chipper self, as if he hadn’t just almost stepped into a pitfall.

Some time later, they turn at the blue gates of a kindergarten and walk up a final hill. Slowly, stone fencing and flanks of long red and white flags come into their lines of sight. The road takes on a gentle bend, leading their footsteps through a grey torii gate, moving their physical forms from the mortal path they tread upon into sacred grounds.

The peace embodied within the shrine’s boundaries are utterly contrary to the madness of a court, so much so that their presence almost feels intrusive, as the three of them represent those who thrive on conflict and potency. The self-realization prompts Atsumu’s feet to almost tread more carefully across the cement tiles, as to not cause any spiritual disturbance. Around them, a few other visitors are scattered about, paying them no mind as they indulge in their own forms of worship.

As they approach the oratory, its crimson facade and jade-colored roof laying groundwork for the much more intricate details in its architecture, Atsumu pauses and marvels.

“This...feels like home.” He breathes out the comforting words. The sight reminds him of the many similar Hyogo shrines that his team has frequented over the months, and Atsumu can almost hear Kita-san’s steadfast voice at his ear, dutifully explaining each of the ritual practices. Today marks the first time he enters one with no actual comrades beside him, but nonetheless, it is as if a prophecy idles in the air, freed by the invisible fox spirits that now supposedly surround the three of them.

“It’s so beautiful.” To his right, Komori is nothing short of awestruck.

Sakusa appears to Atsumu’s left at surprisingly close proximity, a sleeved arm nearly brushing his own. As the spiker joins them in admiring the scene, he gently lowers his mask to rest against his chin, as if demonstrating respect towards whatever gods they regard. Beneath the fabric is a tender smile that Atsumu can see within his periphery, and he wonders if he has indeed been blessed.

A breeze travels between their standing forms, whispering unintelligible messages that can only be interpreted by another realm. Atsumu fights the urge to take Sakusa’s hand - the same way his younger self gripped Osamu’s back in Osaka - and lead them both into whatever spiritual tests of their partnership lie ahead. Within his imagination, snow white foxes deliver them into challenges thick and thin, each mission far more severe than recreating the delicate texture of mochi, but still with the same sweetness at its conclusion.

Before the visions carry him too far, Komori summons him back.

“Since we’re here anyway, shall we make some wishes?”

The libero ascends the few stairs that lead into the overhang, and Atsumu follows close behind. Eventually, the three of them again stand in the same row, an unintentional imitation of positions on a court - this time, however, they confront not an opponent, but their own hopes.

As he had done a thousand times previous, Atsumu places both hands together near his chin and closes his eyes.

_May our trust be unbroken_.

It is the shortest prayer he has ever given, but it is also the most earnest. He mentally runs through the names that belong at the other end of that connection - _Osamu, Aran, Rintarou, Ren,_ _Akagi, Ginjima, Kosaku, Riseki, Kita-san_ \- and he adds not one, but two more at the end.

“What did you pray for?” One of the two additions questions when Atsumu opens his eyes. “I wished for everyone we met at the camp to do well!”

“Yer too nice, Komori-kun.” He can only laugh at the predictable wholesomeness - one he currently does not plan on echoing. “I wished for Inarizaki’s victory next month, ‘course.”

Komori joins his laughter for a moment, but settles down quickly to gesture towards his cousin. “Did you pray for anything, Kiyoomi-kun?”

Atsumu turns around to see a pensive Sakusa, both eyes still looking straight ahead.

“No.” His voice is as soft as a whisper. “You know I’m not superstitious.”

For the first time since meeting him, Atsumu can clearly perceive some falsehood behind Sakusa Kiyoomi’s words.

==

Their footsteps touch earthly ground once more, and Atsumu knows the time he bought is up.

“Before I forget!” Komori, his eternal savior, extracts his phone from the sidepocket of his backpack. “Let’s exchange LINE contacts, Atsumu-kun.”

“Uh…” Atsumu nearly falters, but recovers fast enough to follow suit. Behind Komori, a hint of panic flashes across Sakusa’s face, and Atsumu decides to train his attention on the screen instead.

“Here’s mine.” Unaware of his cousin’s reaction, Komori begins inputting his details into the setter’s device. As soon as he finishes, a fateful question comes next.

“Kiyoomi-kun, should I give him yours, too?”

A few seconds of silence pass, and Atsumu does not dare to look up, much less hope.

“Only if Miya promises to only message me about volleyball.” When Sakusa’s response finally arrives, its tone is surprisingly complacent. “I won’t respond to anything else.”

Relief overwashes him, and as Komori resumes fidgeting with his phone, Atsumu decides to at least give reassurance. “Don’t worry. That should be easy enough.”

Before his words draw a reaction out of Sakusa, a resounding laugh cuts through.

“Atsumu-kun, why do you have 39 unread messages from your own brother?”

His face immediately sours.

“If ‘Samu were _your_ brother, you’d understand…”

“Can’t wait to see him again.” Komori shakes his head in amusement. “I have a strong feeling that him and I are...kindred spirits somehow.”

Before Atsumu can ask what he means, Sakusa begins nudging his cousin with an elbow. “We should go.”

Flipping his phone screen to its clock, Komori checks the time before nodding in agreement.

“Right, right.” He concurs before reaching out his arm. “Great to have spent this week with ya, Atsumu-kun! We’ll be 100% ready for you next month.”

“Likewise.” As Atsumu completes his side of the handshake, he notices Sakusa watching the movement intently. Once it ends, however, his tall figure is the first to retreat from their group, beckoning Komori to engage in a mini chase.

Everything occurs all too quickly, causing Atsumu to scramble for the best words to mark their separation. In the end, he calls out the only thing that comes to mind.

“Hey.”

Though no name is used, Sakusa is still the one who stops and spins around.

“Dun’ miss my sets too much.”

The spiker’s expression stands neutral at first, but from afar, blended in with the afternoon shadows of the greenery surrounding them, Atsumu thinks he sees it soften.

“I won’t.” The answer is almost muted by their distance, but its clarity does not dissolve even as the speaker turns away.

“You’ll get to toss to me again someday.”

As the pair disappears around the corner of the next street block, the significance of those last words is anything but lost on Miya Atsumu. But for now, he can only stare at the layers of screen protection and glass within his grasp, blatantly showcasing an array of contact details right beneath.

_28 days until the National Tournament._

_28 days, 9 hours, and 37 minutes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe in Atsumu and Komori's friendship potential, that’s all <3
> 
> [The Oji Inari Shrine that they visit is very much real](http://www.visiting-japan.com/en/articles/tokyo/e13ki-oji-inari.htm)! It’s about a 35-minute walk from the Ajinomoto National Training Center, and you can see [the entrance on Google Maps here](https://goo.gl/maps/xg5zpD1fT5bAR37J7). When I discovered this coincidence, it felt like something that had to be included ;)
> 
> Thanks again for reading and feel free to leave a comment! [Come find me on Twitter](http://twitter.com/_mika60_) if you feel so inclined :)


	3. 2013, January; May

The countdown to Nationals reaches 25 days, 5 hours, and 23 minutes when Atsumu sends a video of a Himalayan kitten rolling around with a volleyball through the pillars of cyberspace.

It takes another three minutes before a response comes.

**Sakusa  
** _This message is not about volleyball  
_ _Assuming this is you, Miya_

_There is a ball right there!  
_ _Yes, it’s me_

**Sakusa  
** _This cat needs more practice  
_ _Good night_

He spends the next three hours finding every clip of animals-playing-with-volleyballs that exist on social media, placing them into categorized phone albums and dangerously reaching his storage limit by the end. It becomes a daily routine after that: a passing of a new viral moment, a few seconds of anticipation, a cleverly snide response.

Every evening, Atsumu lays down in his room, its walls plastered with volleyball posters and pictures of him and Osamu’s adventures all over Japan - the markets of Osaka, the beaches of Kamakura, the forested valleys of Nagoya - and relishes in these brief interludes on a screen. Sakusa never sends back more than five words or uses emojis of any kind, but it’s enough. It’s enough to tingle his mind with the crawling roots of imagination, of untaped fingers smoothing over a keypad as they reluctantly seek the right hiragana, of the incessant struggle to visit and revisit the backspace button. Only when his ceiling light flickers does Atsumu realize that these are actually projections of his own movements - unto an unknown room somewhere in Tokyo, its contents he may never see with his own eyes.

Their abridged style of conversation still graduates eventually, moving from silly videos to actual volleyball game highlights from the professional circuit. Sakusa still says little each time Atsumu forwards another personal favorite, but he takes solace in the fact that they seem to appreciate similar players across the globe. Motoya - now evolved from "Komori" - connects with him on a separate text chain, where the topics sporadically jump from the libero’s dog to blurry photos of ramen to the funniest variety shows on TV. There is the occasional leaked factoid about Sakusa - he carries around not one but _two_ lint rollers; he loves pickled plum not for the taste but the texture; he never leaves anything unfinished; he loves his cousin’s dog but would never admit it - but Atsumu never pursues them too far, instead depositing each new discovery into a growing stockpile that he regards fondly. Still, the tidbits come, each one more suspiciously intentional than the previous in their delivery.

Twelve days until Nationals, Atsumu’s daily message to Sakusa evolves to a video from Inarizaki’s own practice. The runtime is barely six seconds, with Rintarou’s somewhat shaky camera work capturing the latest iteration of Osamu and his reverse minus-tempo attack. He puts the phone to sleep as soon as the file filters through, props his head on both hands, and rests on his stomach, eyes hunting for the imminent notification.

The dark surface soon blinks to life, and he almost scrambles.

**Sakusa** **  
** _That was...pretty good_ _  
_ _Why wasn’t your brother at the camp with us_

  
He can’t help but grin at the affirmation, as well as the keen analysis only a fellow elite player could possess. Flipping over to his back, he enters his typical response.

_Because he actually sucks_

**Sakusa**  
_Apparently not_

_No, I guess he doesn’t suck_ _  
_ _Don’t tell him I said this_ _  
_ _but there’s no better opposite out there_

**Sakusa**  
_Other than Wakatoshi-kun..._ _  
_ _But then again_ _  
_ _He’s not your twin_

_That name again._ Atsumu’s nose wrinkles. He can’t help but wonder if Sakusa actually responds with lengthy messages when he texts the Shiratorizawa ace. But having seen Ushijima’s wooden personality for himself over the years, he feels quite certain that no dialogue between the two would sustain for long. Nevertheless, the uneasy feeling within his stomach can’t be quelled. 

**Sakusa** _  
_ _Why did you send me this by the way_ _  
_ _What if I forward it to my coaches so they can figure out counters_ _  
  
_

_Just wanna show you what you’ll be up against_

  
**Sakusa** **  
** _Make it to the finals first_

  
Atsumu is halfway to his own taunting response when a new message arrives - not in text form but a playable video, its thumbnail previewing the poised flight before a serve. This first taste of reciprocation sends his thumb into overdrive, tapping the tiny play button like it is the final step to halting a time bomb.

Across the net, a blurry Sakusa looks fully at ease as he takes off into the air and pummels the ball. Even within the confusion of pixels, his position in the air is immaculate, each bend and angle drawing Atsumu’s attention in its own way. Before he can admire for too long, the camera follows the ball’s ferocious arch crosses the entire span of the court, landing barely before the opposite baseline  
  


_Thanks, forwarded this to my coach_

**Sakusa** **  
** _Again_ _  
_ _Make it to the finals first_

Atsumu resists the temptation to extend the banter further, knowing that what Sakusa says is the flat out truth. Instead, he saves the video into a brand-new folder and names it “Sakusa.”  
  


These nights, he dreams about victories, of Inarizaki atop the Nationals podium in the middle of center court, of himself raising the trophy and basking in ultimate glory. But unlike before, that same vision is no longer complete without bright yellow-and-green uniforms flanking where his own team stands, an envious yet sincere smile directed towards him from slightly below.

Two days from their departure to Tokyo, he adds Motoya into a separate conversation.

**ItachiCousins (Group)**

_The tournament bracket is out_ _  
  
_

**Moto-kun** _  
_ _We saw!!_ _  
_ _Good luck against those crows!!_

_You two are coming to watch right_

**  
** **Moto-kun**  
_Of course!!_ _  
  
_

**Sakusa** **  
** _We’ll see_

_!!!! You promised!_

**Sakusa** **  
** _Motoya promised_

 _You nodded!_ _  
  
_

**Sakusa** **  
** _Your memory is better than mine_ _  
  
_

_No it’s not_ _  
_ _You remember all my tosses_

 **  
** **Sakusa** **  
** _Not anymore_ _  
  
_

**Moto-kun**  
_Don’t worry we’ll both be there :)_ _  
  
_

_Good_ _  
_ _We’ll try to put up a good show_

His palms feel clammy at the thought of being on yet another monumental stage, where grandstanding against opponents that have existed only through hearsay is a most welcome fuel. A thousand eyes will be trained on Inarizaki again, but he only wants two to stay on him, to verify and solidify that cornerstone of trust currently building towards a new height.

==

A weather delay in Hyogo causes half of the team to miss the opening ceremony, so they finally arrive as a complete roster on the second day, the bus ride a more relaxed affair than usual after a restful night of sleep at the nearby hotel. Among the gathering players already on the outside grounds, a hint of highlighter colors edges into Atsumu’s line of sight almost as soon as he disembarks, and though its head is not made up of black waves, he still gravitates towards it.

“Motoya-kun!”

“Atsumu-kun! Good to see you again!”

As he engages in a physical handshake with the libero for the first time in months, the whispers that had already begun with Inarizaki’s initial appearance now focus solely upon their greeting, with rampant speculations as to the two’s apparent familiarity.

Atsumu finds himself leaning in closer, wanting to keep at least some semblance of privacy - he had momentarily forgotten that they were no longer alongside the select few players from training camp.

“Where’s Sakusa?”

Motoya points back towards the parking lot. “He’s on the bus still. Apparently he may have forgotten his extra face masks, so he’s double checking everywhere.”

“Oh?” He instinctively begins to unzip his backpack. “I should have some that I haven’t used yet…”

“Are you sure?”

Without looking, he retrieves the brand-new packaging folded into the front compartment before tucking it into Motoya’s hands. “It’s fine. My team likes to march in wearin’ ‘em, but I don’t mind standing out.”

Motoya flashes one of his usual grins. “You’re always too funny, Atsumu-san. I’ll make sure Kiyoo--”

“Atsumu!” His name thunders via Aran’s voice from behind. _Ah right, we’re the first game_.

“Gotta go.” Atsumu reluctantly picks up the feet that hadn’t wanted to move this early into the conversation. “Watch us closely!”

As he builds distance from Motoya and approaches the first site of his reckoning, a pang of regret at not having seen Sakusa emerges. But he carries on, opening the doors to crowds that both revere and fear them.

==

It is, to say the least, a tragedy of epic proportions.

Atsumu’s lungs ignite with the exertion of a three-set game, each breath as painful as the thumping muscle nearly bursting in between them. The playbacks of points lost or chances missed prove constant, each one supplemented by the calculating looks of Kageyama Tobio and his orange-haired missile. Despite the repeated reassurances from his seniors, the disappointment only multiplies by the second, a wrench twisting his gut and vigorously loosening all his emotional inhibitions.

He’s the first to exit the locker room this time, the first to decline the microphones being shoved into his vicinity and turn deaf to the sobbed shouts of encouragement from dedicated fans. Thankfully, they all know better than to follow an upset Miya Atsumu too far, and once he finds a private corner to duck into, he awakens his phone.

_Hey_ _  
_ _Can ya meet me?_ _  
_ _It’s about volleyball. I promise._

 **  
** **Sakusa** **  
** _Ok_ _  
_ _Where_

  
Sakusa finds him a few minutes later, arriving in his usual state of both hands in pockets and face half-covered. Atsumu wants to ask whether the mask is one of his, but doesn’t. In the end, this is not at all how he had envisioned their first reunion post-camp, but their proximity is not due to a court for once, so he appreciates the moment for what it is.

“Good game.”

There is a strange comfort in Sakusa’s tone, though Atsumu isn’t sure if it’s actually attached to his voice or simply part of Atsumu’s own biased interpretation.

The spiker continues, eyes somewhat unfocused. “I guess I kind of see…how they defeated Shiratorizawa now…sorry that your wish from back at the shrine didn’t get granted.”

Atsumu can only laugh bitterly at the irony, for his true wish - trust between team Inarizaki - did manifest greatly in the end. When confusion begins to line the Itachiyama ace’s face, he decides to redirect.

“I’m still not bad at this, right? Even though we lost so early on?” He returns to the version of himself that desires validation, despite knowing the response he might receive.

“You toyed around with them too much.” As expected, Sakusa frowns, his scold just as clear-cut as any of his coaches. “Your own fault.”

_So direct as always. And exactly what I need to hear_. He snorts while dropping his gaze to the ground, in full acknowledgement of the error. A few seconds later, he senses Sakusa shifting from his position to stand to his immediate left. As with the visit to the shrine, their arms nearly brush again, but this time, Atsumu is far too fatigued to dream of new adventures.

“In the end, though, Miya…” Sakusa’s voice becomes a drawl as he waxes philosophical. “We _all_ have these days. Nothing is ever set in stone, so I won’t ever pity you.”

The statement is an awakening of sorts, transporting Atsumu from the swamps of paltry despair. He looks up to the side then, drinking in his companion’s poised stature and composed profile. At one point, he had thought Sakusa Kiyoomi a daunting wall that absorbed everything and released little. But here and now he is nothing but solid ground, comprised of layers and layers of immovable, dependable soil that surround a maze of dangerous marshes. Even as his emotions wander into their usual, extreme depths, Atsumu feels himself lassoed and tethered back to safety.

“I just...really wanted to play against ya again.” He confesses the truth that has accompanied him through those wetlands.

Sakusa turns to him, both expression and tone still matter-of-fact. “It’s not a guarantee that we will make it to the finals, either.” He states without hesitation. “We still always have next year.”

“Yah, and maybe beyond that?” Atsumu takes the chance to unveil a toothy grin.

Rather than rebuffing the wishful thinking, Sakusa regards him with an even more serious look. “Maybe...”

His grin fades as Atsumu realizes that the suggestion is no longer being interpreted as mere theory, much less jest. But before he can follow up on the train of thought, a sudden question catches him off-guard.

“What did you say to that short Karasuno 1st year?”

“Huh?”

“When you pointed to him on the court.” The clarification is pronounced behind the mask.

Atsumu thinks back to that heat-of-the-moment decision, the sheer envy he had towards Kageyama Tobio during those tense minutes on the court. The karma for being a goody-two-shoes may have been worthwhile, after all, especially as Atsumu himself is now trapped within this unsavory twist.

“I said...that I was gonna set to him one day.” He barely squeezes the admission out. “Hinata Shouyou was much better than any of us expected, so I just---”

“I see.” Sakusa interrupts, perhaps a bit pointedly, and turns his head away. Once again, Atsumu cannot confirm whether the tone is actually attached to his voice or just a figment of Atsumu’s biased interpretation, but he’s fairly positive that it’s the former this time.

“Sakusa--”

“You don’t have to explain, Miya.” The spiker begins to slot fingers through his hair, a gesture completely foreign to Atsumu’s eyes. “There is nothing to explain.”

It’s one of the rare times in his life that Atsumu is rendered speechless, unsure of how to respond to these enigmatic behaviors that prove difficult - though not impossible - to decode. He is no stranger to aggravation directed his way, much less from the young man in front of him, but the mere thought that the steadfast Sakusa Kiyoomi actually _does_ care about Miya Atsumu’s choices - does feel _envy_ himself - comes as the biggest revelation yet.

“Sakusa--” He tries once more, but reaches nowhere.

“I have to go warm-up.”

And so yet again, he is left behind. But for once in his life - and perhaps, yet another tragedy of epic proportions - Atsumu does not chase after what he wants.

==

Their train back to Hyogo is rescheduled for the evening of the 7th, 48 hours earlier than their original expectations. With little else to do, Atsumu attends the remaining matches with his teammates, commentating at his own whim. He watches the crows soar past Nekoma while Itachiyama dominates their first two games, paving the way towards imminent victory. A part of him wishes to search for Sakusa in-between rounds, to give him proper congratulations and clear up any misunderstanding; But on the court, the everlasting concentration etched on the spiker’s expression hints strongly that now is not the right time. Instead, he savors each Itachiyama highlight from afar, digesting the different nuances of Sakusa’s flight paths and the understated zeal he uses to connect each of his captain’s tosses. If they are to depart Tokyo before the finals, and no doubt the most anticipated of Itachiyama’s run for the championship, Atsumu knows he will need to savor the hours he still has within the stadium.

He discreetly records as much as he can on his phone, replacing old animal clips with far more thrilling footage.

By the time Tamamime High falls in two sets, Atsumu knows it’s no longer enough - not the text messages and not their cut-short conversations. He cannot be limited to watching Sakusa Kiyoomi play real matches just a few times a year, and certainly not only when the countdown to the next nationwide tournament finally reaches zero.

When Karasuno and Itachiyama end up on the adjacent courts of B and C for the quarterfinals, he gets an eyeful of some of the best volleyball plays in high school history. As he expects - and as Motoya aptly predicted - Hoshiumi is a relentless thorn at Karasuno’s side, stabbing with just enough force to unnerve even the most steadfast of players. As the underdogs of the tournament struggle to contain their latest opponent, Atsumu wonders if Itachiyama’s consistency and rich experience will eventually find more success.

He doesn’t expect to never find out that answer.

His heart drops when Iizuna Tsukasa falls from grace at a critical moment in the third set, his ankle twisting in that ungodly way that they have all feared in their own hearts, if not already experienced themselves. Even Osamu, with all his blessed stoicism, releases a visible cringe and a sound that’s audible above the gasps of the crowd. Just a few points later, the upset from Inubashi Higashi is officially written into the records, and for the first time in his recent memory, Atsumu feels genuine remorse for another high school team.

_And just like that, all is lost. ‘Trust’ and ‘Effort’ notwithstanding_.

Down below, Motoya’s steps are still energetic as he follows his team backstage, with Sakusa trailing close behind, his walk almost an awkward float across the floor. Atsumu swears that he sees dark eyes briefly scan for something in the stands, but they return to a blank state right as Sakusa steps off the court. Above their retreating forms, the Itachiyama banner hangs like a tattered flag, marking a devastating surrender to the fates.

Atsumu breaks off from his teammates when they finally exit the spectating area, muttering an excuse about the restroom before heading in another direction entirely. Before long, he finds himself next to the locker rooms. Unlike his recent experience, however, there are no crowds gathered around - likely due to many making the respectful decision to not disturb a team dealing with an actual injury.

As he waits around the corner, Atsumu decides that he would repeat the same mantra Sakusa so staunchly abides to. _I won’t pity you, either_. The phrase gets recited dozens of times in his head until it no longer sounds planned.

The door swings open a couple of times over the next few minutes, though no one recognizable emerges at first. The third swing, however, provides a different ending, as the back of an all-too-familiar figure comes into view, one arm lifted towards an ear. Before Atsumu opens his mouth, Sakusa’s deep voice speaks into his phone receiver.

“Wakatoshi-kun…” What he utters sounds forthright, vulnerable, _earnest_. “We lost...”

Atsumu turns around as quickly as he came, the syllables of those few simple words thundering louder than the best applause he has ever received. With each heavy step, he once again feels the swamp swallowing up the ground beneath him, the lasso that had towed him through his own muted despair no longer attached.

As ordained by their train tickets, they don’t stay for another match. Throughout the voyage home, Atsumu reclines deeply into his seat and stares at an ever changing dusk hovering above mountainous terrain. Along his limbs and within his chest, different muscles twitch with their own colloquies, each one telling a tale of aching - from defeat, from missed opportunities, from something lost - beyond just a game.

==

Their text chain remains idle on the screen, having stopped abruptly on the date Inarizaki lost at Nationals. Since returning home, he has initiated the drafts of at least a dozen messages before resorting to absolutely nothing at all. Instead, every evening, Atsumu lays down in his room, watches the grainy videos of Itachiyama’s matches, and stares at Sakusa’s final words.

**Sakusa** **  
** _Ok_ _  
_ _Where_

_Would he still look for me now?_ He wonders, and wonders again.

Despite their mutual silence, Atsumu still shares some thoughts to his next best option, knowing that the sentiments might eventually be relayed to Sakusa by other means.

_Sorry about your captain_ _  
_ _You guys played great_

 **Moto-kun** **  
** _Hey!! All good_ _  
_ _Can’t expect everything to always smoothly, whether you pray at shrines or not_ _  
_ _By the way, did you leave early?_ _  
_ _Kiyoomi-kun and I didn’t see you after our last match_

 _Yah, sorry_ _  
_ _We had to catch the train back to Amagasaki_

 **Moto-kun**  
_Ah no wonder_ _  
_ _I thought Kiyoomi-kun texted you to ask, but I guess he didn’t_

  
Atsumu refrains from typing _No, he didn’t_ , as it would only serve a bitter reminder of where they left off. Motoya falls mute as well for a while, and the days draw on in the freeze of January until a particularly severe cold front spreads across multiple prefectures of Japan - both Hyogo and Tokyo included. _  
  
_

**Moto-kun**  
_Hey_ _  
_ _I was thinking ahead to better weather and..._ _  
_ _Why don’t we all get together? Maybe during Golden Week?_ _  
_ _Can go somewhere for fun_ _  
_ _Or to practice more_ _  
_ _I think Kiyoomi-kun and I will have different opinions on that one…_

The innocent suggestion weighs heavily on Atsumu’s mind for hours, and he cannot find the proper words to reply with for days. With such opportunity presented to him, he only recalls the particular desire that went aflame during the tournament, the impatience that went beyond just tossing to Sakusa Kiyoomi in whatever future might exist.

_More than a text. More than a game._ He mulls with tenacity. _I wanna see him._

On that particular night, his eyes randomly fall upon the collection of nostalgic vacation photos arranged throughout his walls. Though it had never struck him before, one in particular now stands out against the rest.  
  


_Ok  
  
_

He texts back.

 _  
_ _I have an idea_

==

It doesn’t take much convincing to get Osamu and Rintarou to jump on the earliest train to Kamakura with him, especially after a few days of utter boredom to kick off Golden Week. What Atsumu does not expect is how much the other two had anticipated the four-hour journey themselves, especially when they have the names of other guests on this trip within their arsenal - leaving him alone and defenseless.

“Soooo ‘Sumu.” The nudging begins right after they pass the stop at Nagoya. “I never realized ya became such good friends with those two from Itachiyama.”

He bites back almost too quickly. “Ya dunno everythin’ about me these days, ‘Samu.”

“No wonder their last game at Nationals distracted ya so much, even though most of us were watching Karasuno…”

“I remember Komori-san being very hard to crack...and Sakusa-san was nearly impossible to block…” Rintarou mumbles, his thoughts still gravitating towards their sport.

“Ya, which is why ‘Sumu here desperately wants to toss to hi---”

Atsumu reaches an arm behind him to slap at his twin’s arm, but misses completely. Two sets of snickers begin to sound at both sides, and he wonders what powers of the universe prompted him to sit between them in the first place.

“I wonder what Oomi-san would say about us going all the way to Kamakura to hang out with our rivals.” Rintarou pauses to muse.

“It’s just vacation.” Atsumu justifies. “Get outta Hyogo for once, ya know? Plus, ‘Samu should remember how much fun we had there last time.”

“I just remember ya fallin’ on my sand castle when I was halfway done with it.”

The rest of the trainride feels like an eternity.

==

Their destination is as familiar as his previous visit four years ago, a picturesque horizon of cobalt liquid neighboring a cloudless sky. The mild April climate means fewer visitors taking refuge upon the sand compared to summer months, but that is the exact scenario they need for today.

Through his shaded lenses, Atsumu can decipher two tall figures facing the ocean, waiting next to a makeshift court - Motoya had taken the responsibility of renting the net as long as Atsumu brought other equipment - and his voice releases on reflex.

“Itachiyama!”

The duo turns, and Atsumu almost regrets catching their attention so early on. He feels all his movements cease in place, succumbing to a thorough captivation. Most of Sakusa’s dark hair is pushed above his black visor cap, the curls amassed atop in a bird’s nest-like fashion. The few errant strands that frame his face are windswept, brushing against ivory skin that almost gleam at a distance. Upon one ear hangs the loop of a mask, dangling against that familiar slight frown and the silky, clover fabric of his loose button-up. Despite being the subject of videos Atsumu has replayed on his phone a thousand times in the last few months, he’s almost a stranger again in this state, both fascinating and enigmatic. For the first time, he feels Sakusa Kiyoomi steal his breath completely away and store it in a place he cannot reach by any means.

_Oh_.

_So this must be what absence makes the heart grow fonder means_.

A hard palm slaps against his back, shoving him forward towards the field of flaxen yellow and the object of his newfound affection.

“Ya will have all day to stare...” Osamu whispers under his breath.

“Inarizaki!” Motoya’s wave is as spirited as ever as he waves both his arms in wild circles. “Welcome!!”

His legs finally follow the orders from his head, stumbling forward a few steps before regaining complete motor control. Osamu and Rintarou have already moved ahead of him, and - to his relief - blocked his view for the time being.

Motoya walks briskly towards them, more emphatic greetings bursting from his mouth.

“Nice to see you both.” Rintarou says with more energy than average, and Osamu echoes right after.

Darker hair emerges from behind the three then, growing taller and taller with its owner’s approach. With an exhale, Atsumu does his best to compose himself before walking up to stand next to his sibling. Up close, Sakusa is even more of a vision, and he knows his dreams will recall this for a long time to come.

“Osamu-san, Suna-san.” The spiker nods to the other two first before turning to him. “Miya.”

The simple greeting Atsumu had so carefully prepared gets swallowed up, immediately replaced by a grievance. “Wait, why am I still ‘Miya’…”

“I’m not changing it.” Sakusa says bluntly, his sneakered feet already beginning a walk back towards the net.

He can feel the stares from the three witnesses to this exchange, all having apparently - and happily - accepted their role as audience to this unscripted sitcom. Thankfully, Motoya ensures that the moment doesn’t last too long, as he starts to give enthused instructions on where to put down all their belongings. Atsumu obliges quickly and puts down the box of Osamu’s onigiri, all while pretending that things didn’t just get off on the wrong foot.

“Here.” Osamu throws the beach volleyball they had borrowed to Motoya, who digs it out of pure instinct. Instead of any sensible trajectory, it flies backwards and overhead before Sakusa catches it from his side of the net. 

“Ah...totally forgot that it’s not an indoor ball.”

“Mm, we should be careful playing.” Squinting slightly, Rintarou's fingers rub against his chin as he watches Sakusa test the bounce of the refashioned sphere. “If anyone gets hurt, our coaches will have a _field_ day.”

“We’ll take it easy! Kiyoomi-kun only agreed to come so he can get some practice time with strong players like you guys.” The libero reassures. “Oh, and as long as he can wear sneakers in the sand.”

“Strong players...like _‘Sumu_?” Osamu quips. Atsumu glares.

“The shoes might not be in Sakusa-san’s favor...but whatever makes him comfortable.” Rintarou’s analytical side continues to run its engines. “We’ll all have to adjust in some way, I guess.”

“Oh right! I drew up match-ups on the way here!” Motoya suddenly exclaims. “Literally drew it in the sand over in that corner.”

Atsumu walks over with his teammates, stretching his arms as a preliminary warm-up on the way. A short distance from the sideline, the characters etched in the sand are numerous but as clear as day, and his mouth dries at the sight of the very first lines.

Set 1  
Osamu + Rintarou vs. Atsumu + Kiyoomi | Ref: Motoya  
  
Set 2  
Rintarou + Motoya vs. Osamu + Kiyoomi | Ref: Atsumu

Set 3  
Motoya + Kiyoomi vs. Atsumu + Osamu | Ref: Rintarou

Set 4  
Motoya + Osamu vs. Atsumu + Rintarou | Ref: Kiyoomi

Set 5  
Motoya + Atsumu vs. Rintarou + Kiyoomi | Ref: Osamu

  
“This first set...doesn’t seem quite fair.” Rintarou’s eyes narrow again, this time at the assignments. “Then again. It’s probably not any less fair than Atsumu-kun and Osamu-kun teaming up together.”

“Exactly! It’s just rotations in the end.” With the enthusiasm of a successful mastermind, Motoya claps his palms together. “Shall we begin?”

Atsumu swallows and removes his sandals, gradually dragging toes through the warm grains. As he ducks under the net to reach the side of the court Sakusa is already standing on, he’s thankful for his sunglasses, as they conceal his attempt to not meet the spiker’s eyes.

“I’ll serve first.” Sakusa announces tepidly as he walks back to the baseline.

He simply accepts the fact and assumes his position against the net.

As soon as the ball first leaves Sakusa’s grip, everything proceeds like de ja vu, hearkening back to their brief time at the training camp. Only now, their combined excellence is amplified even more by the lack of other influences on the court. Even without any verbal communication, their skillsets complement each other to the point that no third player would ever be required for additional support. Dominant serves, dominant receives, dominant sets, dominant kills - they culminate into a massacre against two incredibly skilled players, and one who already knows Atsumu’s every tendency since childhood. In the back of Atsumu’s mind, he knows that any coach would acknowledge this kind of performance, would agree with Rintarou about the unfairness of the match-up, would marvel the way he silently marvels at their effortless mending of the other’s flaws.

But most of all, he marvels at Sakusa’s silhouette against shades of azure and the abundance of natural light, rather than the austere walls and ceilings that enclose their usual motions. It’s as if every movement of his has been blessed by an extra dose of freedom, a calling from above to abandon all entanglements and return to a haven for the anointed.

And yet, each time Sakusa descends, a melancholy lingers in the air and traces the curvature of his brows. It drags him silently back to his place on the court, always a short distance from where Atsumu stands. Strangely, they have returned to the early days on the courts of Ajinomoto, where they showcase an idyllic partnership with nary a word. 

When their lead increases to more than 10 points, Atsumu raises both hands for a high-five, which Sakusa returns with hesitation.

“Hey.” He grins as their palms meet. “I missed tossin’ to ya.”

The look in Sakusa’s eyes is imperceptible before he turns away.

At 22-11, an intense rally ensues, and by the time Osamu dumps the ball into a plot of sand Atsumu fails to reach, the intense morning sun and friction of the slide make him feel like he has been forced into a microwave. In the heat of frustration and the fresh desire to separate himself from three brand new layers of sweat, he swiftly removes his t-shirt and sunglasses out of raw instinct and tosses them aside. 

A choked noise sounds behind him, right as Rintarou’s next serve whooshes over the net. Instead of the familiar bump of Sakusa’s faultless receive, what resonates is a distinct “bonk” instead.

“ _Shi_ \---” 

When Atsumu turns back, Sakusa has covered the right side of his face with both hands, a grimace overwhelming his features.

“Sakusa! Are ya alright?” Though he immediately rushes to his partner’s side, he is careful to not make any physical contact.

The spiker nods, not looking in his direction. “Yah...yah. I’m fine.”

“So sorry about that, Sakusa-san!” Rintarou, who has run much closer to the net, exclaims his apology.

“No, my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” Sakusa shakes his head and turns to the side, removing his visor as he steps out-of-bounds. “Just need a minute.”

Motoya looks on with concern, though he does not move towards his cousin. “Take as long as you need, Kiyoomi-kun.”

“As long as you remember the score.”

Atsumu gulps as he watches Sakusa withdraw towards the incoming tide, stopping just short of the retreating foam as to not wet his shoes. For whatever reason, he looks back helplessly towards his three witnesses, all of whom react with the exact same movement - resulting in a trio of heads tipping in Sakusa’s direction.

The mini chorus sends him off with this silent tune, its notes an invisible force, urging him to not squander a chance still sheathed within unspoken words. His bare feet shuffle across the path already marked by shoeprints, disturbing each identical shape with his own traction. Eventually, Atsumu’s toes dip into the cool liquid washing ashore, placing himself at the axis between land and sea, where the texture of sand differs little from the swamps that had consumed him months ago.

“Ya sure yer alright?” 

Their eyes do not meet, but he hopes the genuine concern in his voice will speak sufficient volumes. Beneath his feet, the waves stir against patches of fine sediment, soaking through and peeling away layers until they reveal a chest of buried secrets.

“You stopped sending me videos.” Sakusa blurts out.

Atsumu inhales sharply, allowing the musk of the sea to invade his lungs.

“I thought ya didn’t like ‘em.”

“I never said that.” The dispute is unyielding. “I liked most of the animal ones.”

He smiles at the admission. “Ok. I’ll send you more.”

“Ok.”

Though Atsumu does not see anything for himself, he detects the hint of happiness in the response.

Another wave splashes against his ankles.

“Look, about what I said to Hinata--”

“Like I said back then, there is nothing to explain.” Sakusa’s tone takes on a degree of vexation. “I already knew you said that to all the half-decent spikers, remember?”

Atsumu finally turns his head, heart pounding.

“You were the first I ever said it to, Kiyoomi-kun.” This time, it’s his dispute - and his utterance of the given name - that’s adamant. “That’s the truth.”

Sakusa - no, _Kiyoomi_ \- echoes his action, meeting his gaze with a look that bears the strength to unravel Atsumu’s most stubborn of denials.

“I think I’m supposed to feel honored, but why do I feel troubled instead…?” 

He can’t control the chuckle that escapes his throat, reflecting the jubilant affirmation that he has known all these months but never fully acknowledged. It’s _this_ Kiyoomi that he admires - in all his duality and unique tendencies, his undetectable smiles and much-too-detectable frowns, his ability to match Atsumu every which way on the court, his perfect completion of each imperfect toss.

_Vertical jump height: Skyhigh. Potential spike speed: Infinite. Preferred Trajectory: Towards Miya Atsumu’s Heart._

_You were the first_. Atsumu marvels again, this time at his own revelation.

It’s this Kiyoomi that he loves.

“Let me toss to ya one day, Kiyoomi-kun.” He confesses, in the only way he knows how. “It’s still a promise I wanna fulfill - and not just at a camp, or on a beach.” 

Kiyoomi watches him with a mix of consideration and curiosity for what seems like forever. When time finally restores its rationale between them, he looks back at the horizon once more.

“Ok.” 

At Sakusa Kiyoomi’s level, that’s practically a promise. Atsumu accepts it without prejudice.

==

The five of them finish the rest of the sets with rejuvenated finesse and bouts of laughter throughout - even a few from Kiyoomi. Rintarou and Motoya build up a strangely capable camaraderie in set 2, coming unexpectedly close to defeating their powerhouse opponents. And when the Itachiyama pair somehow defeats the twins by the slightest of margins in set 3, Osamu tosses a handful of sand straight into Atsumu’s aghast mouth.

“That’s for my lost sand castle four years ago.” He declares with tired eyes.

Atsumu chokes and gags, but he can hear Kiyoomi’s softer laugh sound underneath Motoya and Rintarou’s boisterous ones, so he decides that Osamu can live another hour.

At dusk, prior to them catching their respective trains back home, they rest a final time together on the beach, a quintet of drained yet fulfilled bodies seated in a singular row. Atsumu ogles at the myriad of hues painting the sky, a much more brilliant rendition than the scene he had observed when returning from Nationals.

Kiyoomi is the only one to his left, both elbows on knees as he gently sways back-and-forth. With each cycle, their bare arms make the most meager of contacts, and a new set of goosebumps introduce themselves upon other areas of Atsumu’s skin.

“What now?” Kiyoomi asks suddenly, quietly.

Atsumu thinks there is a double meaning somewhere in the question, but he doesn’t dare to overanalyze. In his periphery, he can see three sets of eyes to his right, staring at them with full-on interest.

“...see ya at Interhigh this summer. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully.” Comes the quiet reply.

A set of loud sighs transpire, still coming from his right.

==

Their good-byes are brief, with promises to defeat one another and well-wishes for the school year. While Motoya ends with handshakes and high-fives, Kiyoomi resorts to a few nods from behind his mask. Atsumu returns the gesture, raising and shaking his phone in the process.

He receives an extra nod.

When they eventually board the train back to Amagasaki this time, the two banes of Atsumu’s existence don’t even wait until another stop to begin their badgering.

“Yer so damn obvious.” Osamu snorts the very moment he plops down onto the train seat.

“Huh?”

“To be fair. Both of them were obvious.” Rintarou sighs. “Atsumu, do you even realize why Sakusa-san got hit by my serve?”

“Didn’t he say that he just wasn’t lookin’?” He scans his memory for a possible alternative explanation, but nothing stands out. 

Osamu exchanges a placid glance with the middle blocker. “Both dumb too, apparently.”

“Komori-san had to deal with you two by himself this whole time?” With atypical exaggeration, Rintarou buries both hands into his hair. “Poor guy...”

Osamu’s expression falls sullen, sunken eyes reaching the depths of deep-sea trenches. “And now we’re officially roped in, too. Third year’s gonna be _torture_ …”

The ride back to Amagasaki feels like two eternities.

==

[ _Video of a fox cub dashing circles around a volleyball_ ]

 **  
Omi-kun**  
_Cute_ _  
_ _But can he toss_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations Atsumu! You’ve finally graduated from “Sakusa” to [“Kiyoomi!”](https://twitter.com/oikawaboss/status/1292460295546265601) I’m so proud :’) Let’s see how you fare in the third year of high school next...
> 
> If you know me, you already know that I 100% subscribe to the theory that SakuAtsu would make a very VERY powerful beach volleyball duo. Sakusa probably just has to work on his sets a bit...
> 
> Thank you as always for reading! Feel free to comment or [yell at me on Twitter](http://twitter.com/_mika60_) <3


	4. 2013, July - 2014, January

Memory, as it turns out, is the most controlled concept in Atsumu’s life.

_We don’t need them. We move on_. It’s drilled into his head from the first day he sits down in the Inarizaki gymnasium, spoken by their third-year captain like a directive he was always meant to follow.

For many months thereafter, he had prioritized the mantra across every facet of his existence, severing the lifespan of any new long-term memory whether relevant or irrelevant to his sport. There are the occasional exceptions that often exist in list form: teammate names and stats for convenience, incriminating details about Osamu for their inevitable arguments, the taste of high-quality fatty tuna.

But there are also others now - too many to list, perhaps - _Kiyoomi pouting across the net, Kiyoomi smiling in front of the oratory, Kiyoomi laughing at his sand-covered face. Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi._ The spiker he was not supposed to toss to, the silhouette he was not supposed to fall for, the memories he was not supposed to keep.

They’re what lead to the shift of small details over the next weeks, each like an undulation of Kamakura waves over the sands - the frequency of text exchanges, the length of a conversation, the tone beneath each message. At some point, Atsumu loses track of who initiates more, or who says goodnight first, but the playful banter they have settled into becomes a constant, so he focuses on perfecting that instead.

They never engage in verbal calls - _you would talk too much for my tolerance levels,_ Kiyoomi had set that boundary earlier on - so their fingers transmit each syllable with due diligence for minutes upon hours. Atsumu becomes well-practiced at typing certain words - _Itachiyama, Motoya-kun, your weird wrists_ \- but _Kiyoomi_ is, ironically, never within that solidifying lexicon.

“Ki-yo-omi.” Whenever he falls half-asleep, Atsumu thinks his muscle memory rolls off the three syllables on its own, like spontaneous rehearsals for an imminent performance.

Atsumu is also 90% sure that Motoya has started another group text with Rintarou and Osamu, because it’s no coincidence when Kiyoomi makes subtle references to Atsumu’s kitchen fails at home, especially not after he catches Osamu secretly recording each incident. Nevertheless, he is only antsy his twin might hold hostage similar, exclusive clips sent from Motoya’s side, as such collateral dangles an infinite price tag.

To thwart whatever unsavory schemes Osamu might douse him with one day, he starts soliciting his own photos through whatever he can offer.

_I think we forgot to mention in Kamakura but_ _  
_ _Guess who became captain of Inarizaki_ _  
_ _[Photo of Atsumu looking smug in his new uniform]_

**Omi-kun**  
_Didn’t realize your whole team were masochists_ _  
_ _How many rebellions have there been already_

 _You wound me_ _  
_ _I will be a GREAT leader_ _  
_ _And we will beat you in another few weeks_

 **Omi-kun**  
_Remember to take responsibility when you lose to us_ _  
_ _Great Leader-san_

 _Did you guys get new uniforms?_ _  
_ _Can I see?_

 **Omi-kun**  
_No_ _  
_ _We have the same ones_

He accepts that the attempts are not always successful, but he finds that the more he self-deprecates, the higher likelihood he will receive something in return.

_Time for a touch-up_ _  
_ _[Close-up of Atsumu’s hair before his latest salon appointment]_

 **Omi-kun** **  
** _Your roots look atrocious…_ _  
_ _And don’t tell me you’re keeping that color still_

 _Gimme a break here_ _  
_ _My hair is hard to maintain!!_ _  
_ _Do you not like this color?_

 **Omi-kun** _  
_ _It always looks like an egg yolk exploded on your head_ _  
  
_

_Egg yolk????_ _  
  
_

Kiyoomi sends a photo of the egg he cracks for breakfast the next morning. The bulbous center is, in fact, the same color as his hair.

_I’m changing the dye next time_

**Omi-kun**  
_Thank god_

  
The number of animal videos in his phone begin to deplete, and the Omi-kun folder grows in pixels and megabytes that have no rhyme or reason at all. Memories. Replaced. Remembered.  
  


==  
  


They qualify again for Interhigh, an achievement even Osamu grudgingly admits is partially due to Atsumu’s leadership. On the same afternoon, both Motoya and Kiyoomi respond to his announcement with news of Itachiyama’s advance, and Atsumu feels almost more relieved about the update than his own success.  
  


Ever since recognizing the extent of his feelings, the tournament holds even more meaning than before. It marks nearly one year from that fateful meeting before semi-finals, and an eye-opening match that is - contrary to the school mantra - forever sealed in his memories.   
  


This year, Atsumu enters the same grounds in the place of Kita, whose steady methodologies were completely contrary to the vitality and hubris he now leads with. But with the quartet of fellow third years flanking him, and the cheer squad’s relentless stamina, their team aura remains balanced, with just the right level of savagery to inspire the same awe. He still struggles with the notion that Osamu will no longer be alongside him in another year, but he is here and now, ready to take on the universe with all their signature moves intact.

But for those adversaries who have become too familiar - _a bad thing, perhaps_ \- they are merely companions standing beneath the same umbrella. And as third years, their judgments of one another now contain far more foresight than remembrances.

“Atsumu-kun! Osamu-kun!” As always, Motoya is the first to greet them in the common area. To Atsumu’s surprise, a masked Kiyoomi lingers not far behind, allowing himself to blend into the bustling crowd of players rather than using the walls as failed camouflage.

He feels a strange sense of pride, but what responds to his smile is the biting remark he fully expects.

“I still can’t believe you became captain...” Kiyoomi eyes the Inarizaki sign within his grasp.

“Not bad, huh?” He raises both his chin and brows in a rather vain display.

“I guess your team _did_ make it here…” The drawl accompanies a more standard analysis. “So more credit to them for enduring both you _and_ your opponents…”

“ _Somehow_ , we survived it all...” Osamu verifies the slander with the same finesse he uses to complete Atsumu’s sentences.

Besides them, Motoya starts laughing as usual, and despite the quips, Atsumu can’t help but grin at the ease at which their chatter progresses. He can see that something is alive in Kiyoomi’s eyes as well, a stir hinting at attachment to these bonds they have all formed. For a moment, he wonders how durable the filaments connecting the two of them actually are, and whether they would ever forge something stronger than a thread of comical texts.

The announcement for the opening ceremony sounds, prompting all teams to scatter about and regather within their assigned line-ups. Itachiyama is right in front of them this year in the entrance parade, and rather than moving any distance, Kiyoomi simply turns around in place, allowing himself to mark the tailend of his team’s formation.

“Yer the team ace.” Atsumu leans forward to whisper. “Ya should be more up front.”

“This is...perfectly fine.”

He doesn’t debate the decision further, and simply savors their closeness as they march in, no matter how temporary the moment is.

==

Their schools have byes as per usual for the first round, and the unspoken agreement to watch the other matches together forms once the opening ceremony ends. Wordlessly, they trek up the maze of stairs and settle into two rows of seats, Inarizaki behind Itachiyama.

“Eh, Karasuno is not here again?” At long last, Rintarou notices the powerhouse school’s absence, evidently having not paid attention to the full bracket prior to now.

“Date Tech beat them in the prefecture qualifiers this year.” Osamu explains. “They seem to have bad luck with Interhigh…”

“Shame, I wanted to see Kageyama and Hinata’s improvement…or even go against them here.”

His twin shrugs. “At least one of our teams will probably face them in the spring.” 

Atsumu’s thoughts drift to his second year rivals briefly, but Kiyoomi is sitting in front of him, and the urge to give his own input immediately dissipates. Whether Karasuno will return to his orbit or not, he himself is the satellite now, already tied to a force larger-than-life. 

They watch the simultaneous matches with intense focus, giving occasional commentary on impressive plays or unexpected skills. As expected, Kiyoomi says little compared to the rest, but his concise judgments also tend to inspire the most follow-up conversations. For the first time, Atsumu receives a generous example of just how intricately Sakusa Kiyoomi understands the sport and its athletes - the sheer collection of memorized data that extends far beyond his Itachiyama teammates.

_He watches. And he remembers_.

Back at training camp, Atsumu had thought he was unique - that special attention was given to him for whatever reason. But perhaps, he was just another face in the crowd after all, and his own hyperfocus on the Itachiyama ace unrequited.

Despite the memories he has kept so closely, and the feelings that have blossomed from them since - doubt begins to seep in.

Far below, a whistle blows to signal the end of one set for the match closest to their seats.

“I’m getting some tea.”

Kiyoomi stands up abruptly, his tall form almost blocking Atsumu’s entire view.

“Ah, _captain_ , could you get me some too?” Rintarou’s voice - as _calculating_ as he has ever heard it - sounds to his left.

He frowns and looks over. “Why aren’t you getting it yourself?”

Two pairs of eyes glare back, so sharply that they practically pierce through his soul. Osamu mouths a silent _Why are you even asking, dumbass?_ That propels him to simply stand and obey the request.

When he turns, expecting to catch up to Kiyoomi, he’s almost shocked to see the spiker waiting for him, not far ahead and forcing him to chase as he had done so many times previous. He descends the few steps and closes their distance, and Kiyoomi actually allows him to lead them both out of the arena.

As usual, there are stares and whispers around them throughout the short journey, and even a few snuck photos of them walking together - Atsumu makes a mental note to try and find them online later. The attention is no surprise to him, but he knows his companion might not feel the same way, so he does his best to distract.

“So uh...how is _yer_ team?” He puts on a curious hat and finds a topic they hadn’t discussed over text. “Is yer former captain doing ok, too?”

“Everything’s fine.” Kiyoomi responds behind his mask. “Iizuna-san fully recovered and is playing in college now.”

“Glad to hear that.” He responds honestly to the news. “Injuries can derail so much... _too_ damn much.”

“They’re just a part of what we do in the end. It’s a risk for us every single day.”

_So matter-of-fact as usual_. Atsumu smiles inwardly. “Ya should be careful, really. The way ya fly around...only takes one wrong landin’.”

“Iizuna-san was a setter just like you.” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow as they arrive at the concessions stand. “So speak for yourself, Miya.”

“Point taken.” He relents to the airtight logic.

They place their orders to a very nervous-looking young woman, clearly starstruck and intimidated by their enormous heights. The tremble in her hands when she eventually hands them the tea is likely not due to the bottles’ cold surface. Atsumu, however, notices Kiyoomi’s discomfort throughout.

_He is still not used to close-up attention..._

Suddenly, a thunderous ringtone from Kiyoomi’s pocket sounds, saving him from further awkward interaction.

He glances at the device. “I have to answer this.”

A part of Atsumu registers that Kiyoomi still does not talk to him on the phone, but it dissolves as he thanks the salesgirl on both their behalfs. He walks away from the counter, clutching Rintarou’s tea, and almost drops it at the next thing he hears.

“Wakatoshi-kun.” 

His brain screams at him to stop, to not move to that perilous spot right next to Kiyoomi where he can drink in the poison about to be poured. But this is not the court, and his body refuses to decline the temptation. And so they’re walking side-by-side again, only on this return route, he is the one fully distracted.

“Yes, thank you for the well-wishes.”

_Ushijima keeps track of him also._ His first discovery already proves agonizing.

“Yes, I can still make it next weekend.” Kiyoomi’s smile is unseen but loudly heard. “Look forward to seeing you here in Tokyo.”

Atsumu feels himself careen into a freefall, the numerous recollections of Kiyoomi’s reaction towards Ushijima piecing together, replacing other images like an expedited deletion of files within his phone. They combine to form weights that load his feet with added gravity, making it a struggle to keep up with the spiker’s unusually brisk pace.

The phone is put away.

“Ushijima is...comin’ to Tokyo?” He tries his best to control the tenor of his voice.

Kiyoomi lowers his mask to take a sip of his tea, and a slight smile that has yet to fade becomes fully visible. “Yes, he’s taking a year to figure out which professional league team he wants to join, so he’s going to visit here.”

“Ah. I see.”

The rest of the walk is a haze, with no more words spoken between them. He remembers Kiyoomi landing back on his seat with a featherlight grace, remembers himself handing over the bottle to Rintarou without emotion, remembers sinking deeply into his chair for the rest of their spectating round. There are concerned rather than calculating looks from Osamu and Rintarou now, but their questions are ones Atsumu doesn’t know how to answer himself.

Memories. Memories. His memories are now a hindrance. They build and break down, anchoring him to the promise of paradise that instead marks his doom.

He shoves the cursed thoughts aside - who needs them, anyway - five minutes before the first game.

==

Inarizaki loses in the semifinals, while Itachiyama advances from their end. The final is only a half-reprise of the previous year, but the champion remains the same.

He knows he watched the final match, but he can’t recall any details from it. The moments are as unclear as the low-quality videos he had recorded from Spring Nationals, and the bright hues from the Itachiyama uniforms nearly cause his eyes to sore.

A few scouts from the professional circuit approach Atsumu after the closing ceremony, clamoring for his attention in a polite queue. The one from MSBY Black Jackals spouts off compliments of his play and not-so-subtle allusions on how close Osaka is to Amagasaki. Atsumu takes his card, and the card of many others, after determining that none of them are con men.

The rest of the day is a blur. 

“Ahh...we might not ever get our rematch...” At some point, Motoya is in front of him, dressed in his sweats and careful to not point out his own victory.

“Next time.” Atsumu manages a half-grin. “Good luck to ya both.”

“Good luck!”

There is a flash of Kiyoomi from behind his cousin, wrapped in highlighter yellow and silence, brows arched with concern. Atsumu wipes that image with a wave of his hand before it becomes yet another memory, bidding him a wordless farewell.

On the bus, he delivers an encouraging captain’s speech, eulogizing the on-court actions they will now leave behind. But once the drive begins and he’s sinking into yet another seat, Osamu doesn’t give him a moment’s rest.

“Huh. Yar more serious than I thought...”

Atsumu puts on his headphones, though he never presses play.

“Why didn’t ya just ask him?”

“Ask who what?” He can hear the exasperation in his own speech. 

“Whatever’s buggin’ ya.” Osamu’s tone grows more judgmental. “It’s related to Sakusa, no?”

The solution really is so simple - as always, Atsumu hates admitting that his sibling knows it all - but he can’t bring himself to act upon it. For so long, he has been the one who relishes in his own wants, the one to chase after any goals, the one to satisfy his own curiosities. But now that an actual embodiment of his yearning exists, he cannot string the words together at all. With the shadow of another looming, the hold he has on everything is fragile at best, and the toss he wishes to create may not connect.

He does not wish to lose another game, even if it means he must continue dwelling on that court.

“Nothin’s buggin’ me.”

“Are ya really tryin’ to lie to your twin?” 

“Yes.” He turns his head into the window. “Now let me sleep.”

There is a pause before the truth comes.

“Yer only gonna keep hurtin’ yerself like this, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu stares at his own fingers, tracing the faint bruises that resulted from the day. “I finally understand what it means.” He mumbles. “Our motto.”

_Wakatoshi-kun._

“Memories.” His mind struggles to erase the first-ever instance of the name, and all the ones thereafter. “It might be better to not have ‘em in the first place.”

Osamu releases a deep sigh of futility.

“Go back to sleep.”

==

**Omi-kun  
** _You ok?_

_Ya_ _  
_ _Just disappointed_

Atsumu leaves off the second half - _disappointed in our game. Our loss. My leadership. Myself_ \- and makes no mention of Kiyoomi’s unintentional role in his dejection. Somehow, Kiyoomi is able to read the room, and doesn’t tease him about taking responsibility.

**Omi-kun**  
_Your teammates might be masochists_ _  
_ _But they trust you_ _  
_ _I could tell_

 _Thank you_ _  
_ _I think I need some time_ _  
_ _Don’t mind me if I go quiet_

**Omi-kun**  
_Ok  
  
_

It’s Kiyoomi’s typical, simple response. One that reminds him of far too much in their past.

Their texts begin to take on a similar state from when they initially began. Only now, it’s Atsumu who hesitantly responds, measuring his amount of words carefully each time. He cannot suppress the apprehension that he will learn too much, or worse - will want to learn more. He would rather keep less to remember, to ease that burden of remember _ing_.

The nightly hours he spends staring up at his phone shrink down to minutes.

==

The calendar reaches September, and a look towards the future begins. The new issue of _Volleyball Monthly_ mentions rumors of Ushijima joining a team in Hokkaido next year, and also starts speculating on the fates of the current third years. The reminder prompts Atsumu to finally call some of the scouts from Interhigh, weighing pros and cons through scribbles on a notebook as they each try to woo him.

Kiyoomi’s photo is next to his in the article, his nest of dark hair accompanied by a list of inhuman stats and a brief scouting report. Atsumu wants to text him, to ask if he’s also enduring the same conversations that may decide the trajectory of a life, but he fears that the answers may haunt him.

Osamu enters his room one brisk autumn evening, when their parents are in the middle of a trip to visit extended family, leaving them as the only occupants. Despite the lesser number in the household, his twin has been in the kitchen for hours on end, conjuring up who-knows-what from his recipe books - Atsumu never asks, as he merely consumes.

“Mmm...this _should_ be acceptable.” Osamu swipes a finger across a shelf, inspecting its dust level.

“Wha?” He fails to comprehend the random attempt at parenting.

“Just checkin’ to see if yer room is clean enough.” His sibling deadpans. “Since we’ll have guests tonight.”

With that, he slips away, forcing Atsumu to stand up in pursuit.

“ _What_ guests?” 

“They’re almost here.” The non-answer echoes from the stairwell.

He’s halfway down the steps, nostrils inundated with the smell of yosenabe, when Osamu opens the front door, revealing familiar hues that contrast terribly against the darkening skies outside.

“Mo--Motoya-kun?” Atsumu nearly slips off the last few steps, but grasps the railing just in time to steady himself.

“Heya!” His first unexpected houseguest practically hops across the threshold, the large knapsack hitched on his back bouncing with the momentum.

Behind him, Kiyoomi - _oh god, Kiyoomi_ \- stands with his slouch, seeming more fatigued than usual as he carries a large roll of bedding. Besides a nod towards Osamu, his entrance into the Miya abode is full of nervousness at best and suspicion at worst, with quick blinks that cut between skimming eyeballs scanning every corner of the foyer.

Motoya is also skimming - across the floor towards him. “You seem surprised, Atsumu-kun! Did Osamu-kun not tell you?” A playful palm stamps itself on Atsumu’s shoulder.

“I wasn’t told, eith---” Kiyoomi begins an annoyed protest that fails to find its finish line.

“We have a training camp in Fukuoka tomorrow, but all third years had extra exams, so we had to leave a few hours late.” Ignoring his cousin, the libero dives full-on into the extensive yet logical explanation. “Since Amagasaki is about halfway on the train route, your brother said we could stay overnight!”

“He said _what_?”

Atsumu’s aghast expression is met by Osamu’s completely neutral one.

“I said that, yes.” His evil twin simply concurs. “Welcome, you two. Just leave everything here for now, since dinner’s ready.”

_So that’s why ‘Samu’s been in the kitchen for this long?_ Atsumu wrestles with the truth behind this mystery. However his twin managed to hide such a scheme from him is mind-boggling, and he wonders if things might’ve turned out differently, had he given other answers on that bus ride back from Interhigh.

But for now, he will have to face the consequences, because Kiyoomi is in his orbit again, shoving through those emotional barriers Atsumu had just begun to construct. It’s as if his memories are the defiant 1st years on his team, rebelling against unjust control and demanding both sustenance and freedom. They gravitate towards whatever will satisfy, dragging them back within an arm’s reach.

That negligible distance is all that rests between them for the next few hours.

“Where...where will you two sleep?” Atsumu asks, somewhat fearfully.

“I will stay in Osamu-kun’s room.” Motoya grins. “So Kiyoomi-kun can stay in yours.”

“ _What_?” Their joint howl sounds almost planned.

Osamu tilts his head. “What, ya wanna swap?”

“No!” Again, they speak as one.

“Then it’s settled.” Osamu rolls his eyes. “Now hurry up, or dinner’s gonna get cold.”

==

They’re gathered around the kotatsu, the myriad of steaming dishes upon its surface a most welcome feast. It’s a showcase of Osamu’s best - or at least, Atsumu’s favorites - from onigiri to tuna sashimi to chazuke, with the large pot of yosenabe as a proud centerpiece. Included with one of the four table settings is an additional, smaller pot, where the same mixture of boiling seafood and vegetables act as an individual serving.

“Ya get yer own, Sakusa.” Osamu points Kiyoomi towards that seat. “I figured ya would not want to share with us, especially not my unhygienic brother here.”

“ _Hey_!” Atsumu protests as he is dragged to the neighboring side by their chef. “Who’s the one that always cleans up after each meal?”

Meanwhile, Kiyoomi kneels down where he is directed. “Thank you, Osamu-san.”

They give thanks, and the quest to fill empty stomachs ensues.

A dread loiters in the back of Atsumu’s mind, growing only more severe with each new minute of Kiyoomi’s presence beside him. He hadn’t wished for more images to etch themselves into his memory, hadn’t wanted them to solidify with such clarity. But in this senseless conflict, defeat proves inevitable.

He grips the long plate in front of him and lifts it. “Ya want...some of the onigiri ‘Samu made?”

“I’m sure it tastes great, but no.” The head shake Kiyoomi returns is firm.

“Ah right, ya probably don’t want somethin’ his hands directly touched.”

“I will be the first to have some chazuke, though, if you could pass that.”

Nodding, Atsumu returns the onigiri plate and reaches for the bowl instead, careful to hold it around its side rather than accidentally dipping a finger over the rim. A brief hesitation passes through Kiyoomi as the dish approaches, but he extends both hands to cover part of Atsumu’s grip with his fingers, just enough to cup everything in a light but secure hold.

It takes all of Atsumu’s endurance to not drop the bowl outright, and a few seconds for him to slide his hands backward, the friction resulting from their skin-to-skin contact more heated than the bubbling pots. He quickly returns to his chopsticks, scrambling to fill his mouth with cabbage rather than speak any further. But his traitorous brain knows that Kiyoomi is simply too close after this many weeks apart, and every so often, his head tilts on volition to just _look_.

There is a terrible domesticity to the way Kiyoomi eats, each bite a measured nibble and with barely any movement in his jaw. Atsumu has seen it before, during the training camp dinner they shared. But here, within the comforts of a home and the warmth of a home cooked meal, he seems to savor every ingredient that passes through his lips. As impassive as his face may be, it fails to conceal the tiny quirks of enjoyment that break through the veneer.

Atsumu tries to not stare, tries to not imprint anything into permanence - but there is only permanence when one watches their beloved. So he looks - from the corner of his eye, from above the rim of his bowl, through the gray wisps of steam.

He looks until his memories are as fulfilled as his stomach.

“This was all _too_ delicious!” Motoya exclaims once the bottom of the nabe pot becomes visible. “Osamu-kun, is it true you might go into the food business after you graduate? I will be your first customer!”

“Yes.” Osamu confirms after a sip of his own broth. “‘Tsumu is still upset at me, but he’ll get over it.”

“Oh? What are you planning on doing? Atsumu-kun?”

He thinks of the notes on various team options currently resting on his desk. “I’ll probably go into the pro league. I’ve been in contact with a few scouts...”

Kiyoomi is now looking at him, his reaction imperceptible.

“We were both approached by a few scouts from the league, too.” Motoya swings a finger between himself and his cousin. “I think I might give it a try!”

The ensuing silence is almost rhetorical, as the baton of conversation wordlessly passes to Kiyoomi for him to grasp and respond. Instead, the spiker quickly begins to stack the plates and bowls in front of him.

“I will help with the dishes.”

“No, yer a guest. Sit back down.” Atsumu pushes off the floor and gathers a bunch of his own tableware. “I can handle the clean up just fine by myself.”

The spiker slows his actions, allowing his collection to be skillfully assembled into another set of hands. And as Atsumu moves towards the sink with the haphazard bundle of dishes, he overhears the conversation at the table move on to other topics.

He knows it’s just Kiyoomi’s way of dodging the question. He willingly plays along.

==

Kiyoomi is here. In his room. Where he has breathed the three-syllable name countless times into its humidified air, and possibly more into the dreams that hover above his futon.

Kiyoomi is here, and he looks absolutely disgusted.

“This is...horrible, Miya.”

Osamu may have underestimated the level of cleanliness Kiyoomi expected, but Atsumu certainly knows the threshold. His room isn’t a cesspool by any means, but there are random pieces of clothing strewn over chairbacks, and he hasn’t organized anything for three days.

“Sorry, had I known earlier that ya were comin’...” He leans sheepishly against the corner near the entrance, unable to withstand much more shame.

“But even if I wasn’t…” A wrinkle of a nose, two wrinkles of a brow. “I can’t believe this is how you fall asleep every night.”

“Are ya...gonna be ok with it? I promise - I _swear_ that the extra futon is clean.”

Kiyoomi’s shoulders sag, the sigh that escapes him echoing across the walls. “I’ll have to wash my weighted blanket once we get to Fukuoka, but I’ll live.”

Motoya and Osamu are still downstairs watching a variety show, so they take their respective time in the bathroom. When Atsumu exits with fully cleansed teeth and water droplets still hanging from the ends of his hair, Kiyoomi passes by him without a glance.

He sets down the still-folded futon in the only open area of his floor, leaving it for his guest to unravel himself. When he kneels on his own duvet, a comfortable distance away, his lungs start a cycle of breathing exercises on reflex. _It’s the same as sharing dormitory space_. He repeats the thought in tandem. But he knows it’s not.

Kiyoomi returns with his hair damp, dressed in a large black sweatshirt and pajama pants that appear ten times as wide as his legs. Atsumu watches as he gingerly spreads out the futon, following with the unroll of his personal bedding across it. Each step is meticulous to a fault, reflective of a nightly, practiced routine. Once all the hems and corners are tucked to his satisfaction, Kiyoomi parks himself upon the fabric and wordlessly engages in a familiar stretching routine - the exact same one Atsumu had seen back at training camp.

He’s looking again, far too closely, and without anything on a dinner table to camouflage his fascination.

“What?” Kiyoomi suddenly asks mid-stretch.

_Just ask him_. Osamu’s ancient proposal instructs next to his ear, and he relents.

“Can I ask ya...something personal?”

The spiker returns his arms to more relaxed positions, both eyes regarding him with skepticism. “Depends...”

Atsumu raises both hands in a sign of submission. “Ya dun’ have to answer if ya dun’ wanna.”

He can sense the ties that connect them tightening, as if bracing themselves to either strengthen or tear. But there exists no prediction for either outcome, only the conversation itself, no longer avoidable.

“Are ya and Ushiwa--Ushijima…” The words roll out much harder than expected. “Are ya...more than just friends?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Kiyoomi freezes, immobile other than his lips forming wary words. Atsumu isn’t sure how to interpret the reaction.

“I...I was just curious.” He scratches his head, scrambling semi-wet tendrils into shapes as messy as his thoughts. “Just had a feelin’, ever since All-Japan camp last year…and when ya took his phone call at Interhigh, it reminded me. That’s all.”

The bite Kiyoomi places on his bottom lip is harsh, thinning it into a stubborn line.

“It’s none of your business, Miya.”

“Ok. Sorry, sorry.” Atsumu acknowledges his mistake, the boundary that should’ve never been crossed. “Forget I asked. Good night.”

With that, he flips over and lays down on his side, still-wet hair notwithstanding. Kiyoomi’s retorts feel like affirmation, and the heartache he had prepared for begins to expand throughout his entire system, tugging painfully at nerves that even volleyball injuries cannot damage.

Atsumu hears shuffling behind him, indication of Kiyoomi also slipping underneath his covers. The lamp between them remains lit, however, and he wonders how long he should count down before turning it off.

Any such plans fall wayside with Kiyoomi’s next words.

“I think at one point, I wished that Wakatoshi-kun and I were more than friends.” The hushed confession is spoken upward, spreading through the air and traveling further than usual. “Maybe I still think that, but--”

An elongated pause.

“But what?” Atsumu cautiously pries.

“Sometimes...meteorites…”

“Huh?” The reference makes no sense to him, and the confusion is enough to jolt Atsumu into turning his body, once again facing the source of his forever enigma. Relief wants to wash over him, to cleanse him of his hesitation and articulate what he means, but the lack of absolute certainty continues to hold him in check.

Kiyoomi’s head rotates just enough that their eyes meet. In the faint light, he looks melancholic - like a beautiful tragedy about to unfold.

“Miya.”

It’s the softest Atsumu has ever heard his name called.

“What is it?”

“You’re really thinking of joining the league? Right out of high school?”

“Mm-hmm.” He nods, earlobe rubbing against his pillow. “I wanna commit myself to volleyball...yer gonna do the same thing, right?”

Kiyoomi just stares back. “Mm.”

“Whaddaya say? Same team? Let me toss to ya?” Atsumu repeats the request - the fervent hope - for the _n_ th time. “I toss pretty good…and you _did_ say ‘someday.’”

Thin lips tuck themselves into a seam before being released again, but no words travel through.

Atsumu smiles then, tenderness emerging at the rare vulnerability he now bears witness to. “Well, take yer time to think about it.” He tries to ease whatever worries still plaguing them both. “I’ll let ya know what I decide.”

In the stillness of the night, they keep their gazes connected for what feels like eternity, dark grey locking onto warm amber as if attracted to a second light source. Somewhere in between, Atsumu imagines falling asleep and waking up to this same sight - but without any breadth of separation between them.

“Miya.” Kiyoomi cracks through the silence first. “I---”

His mouth hangs slightly ajar, but only exhales are released thereafter.

“Omi...” Atsumu thinks he hears himself utter, but he isn’t certain.

Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut, as if in pain. “Never mind.” This time, he is the one who turns his back. “Good night.”

Atsumu shivers at the recoil, feeling something within him become more and more brittle as the seconds tick on.

He counts to twenty before turning off the lamp.

==

He’s alone when he awakens, blinking open to an empty floor that seemed to have never held another body in the first place. By the time he stumbles down the stairs, wondering if the previous night was all just a fever dream, Osamu is already sipping coffee by the kitchen counter.

“Did they…” He seeks the verification, almost frantically.

His twin nods, watching for his reaction. “Took off half an hour ago to catch the first train.”

Atsumu scratches his nape at an almost frenzied speed, feeling the skin grow raw under his blunt nails. “Dammit…”

He’s not sure where the root of his frustration can even take hold. While he had asked, and received some semblance of an answer, only more questions have since surfaced - and they’re not ones he desires resolution to over text.

_Text_. He suddenly remembers, before removing his phone from the front pocket of his sweatshirt.

**Omi-kun** **_  
_ ** _Didn’t want to wake you_ _  
_ _Thanks for having us_

Atsumu inwardly curses himself for being a deep sleeper, for being completely oblivious to every noise he should’ve heard.

“So...nothin’ happened?” Osamu watches him with intent interest.

He resists the temptation to chuck the phone at his twin. “Was somethin’ supposed to?”

Osamu sighs again, and Atsumu thinks, with disappointment, that it might mark the end of all such schemes.

==

The sporadic text chains continue, as if they had never spent a night dwelling in half-confessions.

_I’ve made a decision_ _  
_ _I’ll tell you when we see each other in January_

**Omi-kun**  
_Ok_

==

They get their rematch, at last.

It’s the match of the year - of the decade, as far as Atsumu is concerned. #1 vs. #2 in the finals, exactly how things are supposed to turn out, and what should’ve happened at this very tournament last year.

Inarizaki had gotten their revenge in the third round, squeezing past the Karasuno bullet train and entering the tunnel towards victory first. _See you in the pros_ , he had whispered to Tobio during the final handshake, leaking his own plans as motivation for his rival. The squeeze from the younger setter’s hand had been tenacious in its unspoken affirmative.

Two days and two more grueling rounds later, here they stand. The best setter and most cohesive team against the best wing spiker and libero of not just their year, but arguably - depending on which analyst you ask - of the current high school generation. Insatiable hunger for the championship that slipped away 12 months ago runs through all their veins, fully ready to digest this final opportunity of their high school careers.

_Vengeance_. He mouths to Kiyoomi right as the starting whistle sounds.

Kiyoomi simply serves an ace in response - the first of many to come - and throws a challenging smirk at Atsumu when the ball lands inbounds.

It’s what reminds Atsumu that he’s still head over heels.

The points stack up for both sides - Rintarou blocks, Osamu spikes, Motoya defends, rinse, repeat. They’re thrust back to the Kamakura beaches, reading each other’s subtle movements and connecting play after play with the support of even more teammates. There’s much less laughter this time, but from the occasional smile that appears on each of their faces - almost devoid of the pressure that typically comes with a final - Atsumu knows - _believes_ that they will all continue to play together in some manner in the future. And even if Osamu meanders towards another fork in the path, he will never decline a casual game between friends. Amongst them, at least Miya Atsumu will never be a forgettable transition. He’s always present, creating new memories with those who will always remember him and all their high school tales.

He would’ve liked to boast that he leads Inarizaki to a fifth set, and that the possession of match point swings back-and-forth like a pendulum until a final score of 40-38.

But when they lose in the fourth set instead, at 18-25, Atsumu thinks that’s still fair enough.

There are tears, and his hand wipes at them generously. But Kiyoomi still shakes it, damp skin and all, in the end.

“Meet me after the awards ceremony.” He whispers across the net, all the while wondering if his own grip might be too tight.

There is no complaint, just “Ok.”

==

“Black Jackals. In Osaka.” 

His announcement is filled to the brim with neutrality, well-rehearsed enough to not give away any hints of persuasion or want.

“Congrats.” A corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth turns upward. “How long is the contract?”

“Still negotiating, but hopefully for a while.” He runs a hand through his hair, inhaling long and hard before he utters the inevitable question. “Where...did ya decide on?”

Uncertainty quickly envelopes Kiyoomi’s eyes, and Atsumu’s brows and lips pinch at once, as if squeezing his heart in the process.

“Nowhere.”

The word drops like an indiscriminate bomb, making shrapnel of the fond reminisces he had just gained during their game.

“I’m not going into the league.”

Atsumu nearly grabs the slouched shoulders in front of him, but pulls the urge back in time. The aggressiveness in his voice, however, fails to be contained. “Yer not acceptin’ pro league offers at all?” He means to hiss but instead nearly yells. “I thought---”

“I’m not mentally ready yet.” Both Kiyoomi’s stance and tone are restrained. “I also want to finish my education. I don’t think I should just stop at high school.”

Atsumu can find no words in retort, as he has always known that Sakusa Kiyoomi will see everything to the end.

“’aright. I get it. Pro means crowds, and fame, and everything ya hate at once.” He sighs, still empathetic despite the remnant shock. “Take the time. I’ll wait.”

Another silence stretches between them, more ominous than all the ones past.

“So…where ya headin’?”

Kiyoomi pauses, then looks aside.

“Sapporo…”

“Ho—HOKKAIDO? _That_ far up north?”

The moment Atsumu speaks the prefecture name, an unwanted beacon lights in the form of the _Volleyball Monthly_ article, illuminating that nagging rumor of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s destination - a team in that very same place. _More than friends_. Kiyoomi had wished, had said quite honestly in Atsumu's recollections.

He almost doesn’t hear the next question posed towards him.

“Far up north? Compared to what?”

_Where I will be_. He wants to say, but another, more malignant side of him exposes its ugliness in place of the truth.

“Is the school‘s team even…good?”

The unwarranted doubt inspires serious displeasure on Kiyoomi’s face, and an aura of antipathy reaches Atsumu long before the next words.

“Not everything revolves around your standards in this universe, Miya.”

He knows it’s his own emotions entering a state of malfunction, twisting all facets of his desire into the worst repugnance. What engages between them now no longer feels like innocent ribbing, but harsh rejections given to a confession he never voiced.

“Is that...what ya actually think of me?” He scoffs.

Kiyoomi inhales sharply.

“Why are you this upset? I’ve never even seen you like this after a loss…”

The inner voice urging him to calm down sends a reminder then, that Kiyoomi watches, and recalls, and cares. As such, he should be filled with reverence - and yet, trapped between his own wall of ineptitude and the grisly monuments of jealousy, he thinks that Kiyoomi hides, and lies. 

“Quit fuckin’ analyzing me like ya analyze tosses.”

No mystery remains in Kiyoomi’s eyes now. They gleam with a mix of hurt and fury, more severe than any emotion he has shown since their first meeting. His slouching body locks up, seemingly from the inside out.

“Why…why are you exaggerating like this?”

Atsumu doesn’t have a proper answer at first, cannot rectify the fissioning storm unleashing its thunder from within. He only knows that he loves, loves almost desperately, but he now hates to remember that he does.

“Because.” He allows the squall to dispense its rain of words. “Because y’all leave me with these memories and hopes, and then abandon me again so they can rip away at me...first Osamu, and now you...”

“Am I just something you want to possess? To keep selfishly?”

_No._ The wrongful accusation, combined with the resentful look on Kiyoomi's face, nearly wipes away all Atsumu’s indignation. This is not the Kiyoomi he wishes to see, much less the one he wishes to remember - but it is the one his own faults have provoked.

“That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“You keep saying you want to toss to me, but what is it for?” The spiker’s fists clench. “For me? Or for yourself? And how many others have you promised the same to? I thought our trust would always be mutual, but...”

“Please, _Kiyoomi_.” _You were the first. You always were._ He wants to proclaim but fails to complete, just like too many times before.

Kiyoomi actually stumbles back at the audacity, that intimate usage of his name in the most tumultuous time. When he resteadies himself, his dark gaze is rid of all its previous distortions, taking the form of an emotionless void.

“The truth is, Miya…you can set to anyone, and I can spike anyone’s set.” The statement is nothing short of aloof. “So I think we’re even, no?”

Atsumu cannot conjure up a single denial. He only watches as Kiyoomi turns away, his final testimony severing the few threads that still attached their fragile selves.

“We don’t really belong to each other or need each other. We never did.”

_Kiyoomi pouting across the net, Kiyoomi smiling in front of the oratory, Kiyoomi laughing at his sand-covered face. Kiyoomi whispering half-truths in his room. Kiyoomi leaving for Sapporo. Kiyoomi walking away from the nothing that they never had._

The last memory clutches to him with all its devastation.

==

Ushijima Wakatoshi joins the Tokyo Adlers, rendering the whispers of Hokkaido false. 

For the next few months, Atsumu flips back and forth between two messages on a screen. The first is one he never answers.

**Moto-kun**  
_Kiyoomi-kun’s sister went to that school in Sapporo_

The other is one that never receives an answer.

_Kiyoomi-kun_ _  
_ _I’m sorry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yell at me on Twitter](http://twitter.com/_mika60_) (I probably deserve it).
> 
>  **Edit (November 5th, 2020):** As of the publication of the last Haikyuu guidebook this chapter is now slightly less canon-compliant. Neither team makes InterHigh this school year, and the farthest Inarizaki goes in the Spring Tournament is semifinals - though it's still likely Itachiyama defeated them!
> 
> Of course nothing in the fic will be changed, but just want to note the differences for anyone reading SMWMK in the future :)


	5. 2017, October; 2018, March; 2021, August

Three years.

3 years, 8 months, 14 days, 8 hours, and 38 minutes, to be precise.

It’s about 50 times the length between training camp and Spring tournament back in second year, and the last time Atsumu recalls counting down to something expectant. Only now, he counts up, counts forward, looks at clocks on every wall as they lengthen this distance of silence and longing.

The text chain has yet to move beyond his apology.

But he still speaks to Kiyoomi, in some ways - cheering at the TV screen whenever Kiyoomi scores for his college team, reading Kiyoomi’s _Volleyball Monthly_ interviews aloud to himself in Kanto dialect, imitating what Kiyoomi might’ve said whenever he dyes his hair that much paler shade of blond.

“More like steamed egg than egg yolk now.” He mutters above the whiffs of hair bleach.

Motoya and Rintarou have long since looped him into another virtual conversation, giving him unsolicited updates on everything from the EJP Raijin side. Atsumu responds enthusiastically half the time, but doesn’t go much further than acknowledgement or amusement. He’s not sure whether he’s the one carefully dancing around topics related to Kiyoomi, or if Motoya is simply sensitive enough to not bring up his cousin. Or perhaps, it’s both.

The evasion stings every time, like heartless bombardiers dealing blows to his vast landscape of memories. There are deep crevices where Sakusa Kiyoomi once existed, dangerous voids where Atsumu’s emotions play games of hide-and-seek and end up never recovered.

Others catch his eye - in the stands, at team outings, on the Osaka streets. But they are fleeting encounters that don’t come with perfect form in the air or an innate trust that needs no words. They don’t eat nabe at snail like speed, or only say half of what they actually mean.

On the court, he suppresses everything and performs as the revered setter he is, a Hermes delivering good news to senior players he had quickly learned to adjust to, their numerical preferences overtaking those of his Inarizaki teammates. He’s the lone junior on the team for a long while, with only the occasional match granting him in-person access to fellow Monster Generation members. It isn’t until Bokuto finally finishes his degree in broadcasting, blows up his phone with questions about Osaka, and storms into the locker room for tryouts weeks later, that Atsumu, at last, finds some familiarity in close range.

So he plays on, publicly denying credit for the Black Jackals’ record improving season after season while privately celebrating his personal contribution to it. Osamu shuts him down occasionally during the self-motivational sessions, but he feeds him nonetheless.

His twin never comments in those other times, when Atsumu plants himself in front of the Onigiri Miya counter for a few hours at a time, gobbling down onigiri while staring at the TV’s crisp display of a certain Sapporo university’s matches.

It’s 3 years, 8 months, 14 days, 8 hours, and 38 minutes since his apologetic text when he’s munching on his dinner, captivated by one of the final regular season matches Kiyoomi has before the playoff tournament. With nearly four years of collegiate play under his belt, he’s even more of a tour de force now, all wild attacks worthy of a nature program segment and feathered wings spreading wide in each lift off. Good set or not - Atsumu is always biased towards the latter - the ball is putty in his hands, manipulated with finesse from a master certain to land his team their second college title in a row, and the MVP spot for himself.

Above all the accolades, he’s still painfully beautiful.

But the very next second, he is in excruciating pain - crumbling in front of cameras in a horrendous sight straight out of Atsumu’s own nightmares, hearkening to the darkest fears that overwhelm all their naivete and imagined invincibility. As the screen cuts to a close-up of Kiyoomi clutching his ankle, teammates huddling all around him, Atsumu knows too well what led to the Icarus-like plummet - feels unprecedented _fury_ over the crime.

“ _That fuckin’ setter_!”

He doesn’t realize that he is standing, or that he has yelled aloud, until judgmental stares from other Onigiri Miya patrons bore into him.

==

_Tell me he’s gonna be ok_

**Moto-kun**   
_They took him to the emergency room_ _  
_ _I’m waiting to hear from either him or my aunt_

**Sunarin**   
_For what it’s worth_ _  
_ _When I replayed it_ _  
_ _He didn’t look as pained when they ushered him out_

_You know I’m not going to rewatch that_ _  
  
_

Atsumu doesn’t rewatch the footage on any medium. Instead, he scrolls through the countless travel options on his laptop, like a trapped soul seeking escape. 1,600 km by car, 1,000 km by flight; 22 hours versus 2 hours; an obvious choice. A call to coach Foster - he thankfully hadn’t had to use that last resort “ _the love of my life”_ excuse to get the old man’s understanding - and 45 minutes later, he’s at Itami airport, anxiously tapping two fingers against the JAL counter.

The half-empty flight houses him and his uneasy hands, floating above the clouds and lights within a dark sea. Dark, like the crystalline threads in Kiyoomi’s eyes, crackling with shock as his foot lands at the wrong angle. Atsumu thinks of their conversation back in third year, and permanent injuries that derail a career, and the loss of their only remaining connection. He curls up.

Notifications roll in as soon as he touches ground.

**Moto-kun**   
_Staying a couple of nights for observation_ _  
_ _But he should be ok_

_Which hospital?_

**Sunarin** **  
**_Wait_ _  
_ _Why are you asking?_ _  
_ _Are you sending flowers?_ _  
_ _Or_ _  
_ _Are you IN SAPPORO?_

He lets his silence speak for itself, and only two minutes pass for a different notification to sound.

**Saddermu** **  
**_Impulsive as always…_ _  
_ _Good luck_

==

His dislike of hospitals echoes that of any athlete. It’s a burial ground of broken dreams and unrealized ambitions, where prodigies enter with wounds that may strip them of their status. Even though Motoya’s text is reassuring, Atsumu knows his body, all their bodies - the fragility that one misaligned part can bring about, the failure cascade that can affect them for months on end, if not years.

“I’m a friend.” He answers the reception nurse when his relation is questioned.

“Ah, teammates? You’re both so tall.”

“No.” He grins, and tacks on the seed of hope that had just begun to take root again, for whatever reason. “Not yet.”

The room numbers guide him down a well-lit hall, its wall tiles alternating between beige and soft turquoise as to soothe the minds of visitors. Though the color palette contrasts greatly from the Inari shrine back in Tokyo, Atsumu still imagines that he’s walking towards an oratory, this time with new wishes in mind.

At last, the door labeled “1113” is all that stands between him and that three-year void. He knocks, twice.

“Come in.” The voice is muffled, but still more than enough to amp up his heartbeat.

He twists the knob and crosses that precipice into the unknown.

Kiyoomi sits quietly, bathed in the glow of a ceiling light as he reads the textbook in his lap - _right, college student_ \- as if posing for a portrait labeled “concentration.” A hospital gown billows around him, and a few blankets cover his legs, ending near where an ankle brace is elevated. While a mask still envelops half his face, a wave of hair now swoops down just one vertical side, akin to a more stylish pirate’s eyepatch.

Atsumu commits the sight to memory - the first in a long while he cherishes, despite its dismal context - before clearing his throat.

“Of course ya would still wear a mask in the most sanitized place on earth.”

Kiyoomi’s whole body jumps, nearly causing the book to slide off his thighs. When he looks up, his eyes widen with momentary disbelief.

“Hey.” Atsumu leans himself against the doorframe.

Dark orbs scan him from top to bottom once, and a hand parallels the motion to lower the mask. Kiyoomi’s jaw has sharpened, yet there is still a childlike swell to his cheeks - one accentuated even more by his apprehensive expression.

“What are you doing here…?”

Atsumu runs through his faulty shortlist of excuses and decides to abandon them all. “Can’t I come check up on a friend?”

“Are we?” The spoken doubt pairs with the familiar furrow of brows. “Still friends?”

“I dunno, do friends stop talkin’ for almost four years? Or do they fly across the country at a moment’s notice?” He steps in further then, pacing along the wall until there is open space to stand against near the foot of Kiyoomi’s bed. “Or maybe, those two things aren't mutually exclusive.”

Kiyoomi falls silent, pondering upon the feeble logic without looking away. Atsumu does, however, and drags his gaze towards the ankle brace, examining its contraptions with a trained eye.

“The toss was bad.” A sigh eventually comes from the head of the bed. “I took too long in the air.”

“I saw.” Atsumu returns his attention towards him, this time speaking almost apologetically. “But dun blame yerself.”

The spiker shoots him a surprised look that clearly asks _You watched?_ before relaxing again. “I know you’re itching to say it, Miya,” He leans backward, straightening his spine against the headboard. “ _’It wouldn’t have happened with me_.’”

“You are saying that, not me.”

“Well, shit happens with everyone.”

“Shitty meteorites, right?”

“It’s not career-ending, this sprain.” Kiyoomi twists the leg connected to his affliction a few times, showcasing its continued mobility. “I just need a few days of rehab. So micrometeorite.”

Atsumu senses thorough relief light within him, clarifying any vague conditions and reigniting those flickering flames of hope. But he also prevents any thoughts from drifting too far - from triggering fuses that may still disconnect when so much remains unclear.

Unclear, like the blur of color upon the nightstand that suddenly attracts his attention. At focus, a small vase of flowers rest, its accompanying envelope still slotted in between leaves and petals. The full name is partially hidden by bits of green, but only one character is needed to hint at the complete version.

“Oh. Ushijima came already?” He imagines himself on the edge of the precipice now, ready to accept whatever answer rests at the bottom - only this time, sans those immaturities of old. A few years of regret have honed him into something sharper, but within the mind and not necessarily within words.

“No, he sent this via the flower shop in the lobby.” Kiyoomi says impassively. “The shopkeeper wrote down his message over the phone.”

“Too busy with pro league to come himself, I’m sure.”

There is a pause, and then, a realization that seems to hit them both.

“But _you’re_ here.”

Atsumu inhales sharply.

“Right. I guess I am.”

He moves closer now, obeying some phantom permission that keeps collapsing one barrier after the next. His body cuts through the space between bed and wall until he ends up on the edge of the mattress, careful to still maintain distance between himself and any covered limbs.

“Steamed egg.” Kiyoomi murmurs, staying otherwise immobile despite their shrinking proximity.

“Hm?”

“Your haircolor.”

“Better than egg yolk?”

“Worse.”

Atsumu bursts out in light laughter, feeling both vindication and shame at once. There is a twitch at the corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth, and another twitch that runs down the length of his arm, but only the latter manifests into something more.

“I bumped into you on purpose, you know.” The textbook flips closed, ending prematurely in favor of the new chapter being spoken. “At Interhigh back in 2nd year.”

The words arrest Atsumu’s laugh then and there. His throat now moves in reverse, gulping at this introduction to a story he has only imagined, but never known.

“We watched Inarizaki on tape before the match, and I tried to size you up that morning.” The same stare from that encounter burrows into him again. “Your personality was as awful as I expected, but your sets...they were even more flawless than in the videos. There, I can finally admit that much after six damn years.”

“Oh.” Atsumu finds himself only able to form the most basic words. “Thanks.”

Kiyoomi’s staring at his hands now, regarding them like they wield some power to heal his current wound, like they delivered him enough moments worthy of reminisce years ago.

“In the end, I only got your tosses 21 times at the training camp.” He mutters. “And 37 more times in Kamakura.”

Atsumu’s heart stutters. “Ya remember? Ya _counted_?”

“Shut up, Miya.” The spiker’s face contorts into a grimace. “You’re making this too damn hard.”

“Sorry.”

“I thought I would never get to hit them again. But now, you’re here.”

It’s the second time Kiyoomi voices that observation, reiterating to himself as if trying to anchor reality to this bed that cradles them both. Atsumu wants to reach out, to offer himself as that anchor, but he holds back for just a moment longer.

“Yah, here I am.”

“Why?”

With a single word, Atsumu sees a volleyball being passed to him from Kiyoomi’s receive, its curve a perfect arch, inviting his blessing and truth - the power he could infuse within it before the next connection.

He shuts off every distraction around him, delivering as perfect of a toss as he can manage.

“Because I fuckin’ missed ya, Kiyoomi-kun.”

“Oh.” The ball suspends in the air between them. “Ok.”

“It’s not ok.” He leans closer, every word earnest in his desire to accelerate momentum. “I was a fuckin’ idiot three years ago.”

“You were, yes.”

“And I know ya might not accept my apology, but---”

“It’s not that.” Kiyoomi also leans in, gingerly. “I also...had no idea how to tell _you_.”

“Tell me what?”

“Had I been brave enough that night in your room, I wonder - I’ve wondered everyday for the past three years - if things might’ve turned out differently.”

“Tell me what, Kiyoomi?”

Contrary to last time, Kiyoomi does not react to the lack of honorific, as if he had already expected the endearment to surface. He only closes the distance that already decreased between them in the past few minutes, lips brushing that open spot between brows - that exposed, unfettered area on the court of their past - delivering a gentle yet lethal spike that spins Atsumu’s entire world around and curves directly into his heart.

“That.” The whisper trembles against his forehead.

“Oh.” The only thing Atsumu comprehends in the moment is equal reciprocation, so he plays mimic, planting a kiss of his own onto the patch of skin that has wrinkled at his foolishness countless times. “This?”

“I didn’t exactly imagine you smelling like a stale airplane.” Kiyoomi watches him from beneath hooded eyes. “But yes.”

Dig aside, Atsumu marvels at this match point scored, this victory that they have finally achieved together. 

“When?” He plants both palms on either side of Kiyoomi’s legs with care, though his frantic tone betrays the truth of his mental state. “ _When_ did ya start likin’ me?”

“Was there a specific time…?” His subject dives deeper into contemplation. “Could’ve been when you first gave me those tosses, could’ve been when I got the masks you sent, could’ve been when you started taking over my thoughts far more than Wakatoshi-kun…maybe it was all those times, but maybe none of those times. Even someone with a perfect memory can’t pinpoint something like that.”

“No, I guess they can’t.”

With that, Atsumu drops forehead against forehead, finding need for more support besides the weakening strength of his arms. Kiyoomi leans into the contact, and then one hand slips up Atsumu’s nape, followed by another.

“Is this what I missed out on the past few years?” The spiker scoffs. “We could’ve made memories like this?”

Within the span of a few seconds, Atsumu relives all their times together - those days that were few and far between, but that he never fully surrendered to the void.

“We already had some. But ya were always more than memories, Kiyoomi.” At last, he allows the past to converge with the present, and vows to treasure the latter. “Ya’ve always been here and now for me.”

“You are here, and now.”

“I am.” He wraps both arms around a gowned waist.

Their embrace seems to last for the entirety of all their misplaced days, each synchronized breath a thousand seconds rather than five. When time finally passes through the threshold, returning them to the current evening, Atsumu thinks to the days ahead.

“So what’s next?” He murmurs.

Kiyoomi’s torso slouches slightly. “A few weeks ago, Wakatoshi-kun asked me to consider joining the Adlers next year.”

Atsumu tries to remains calm, though the tinge of fear that arises does propel him backward. “And what...did ya say?”

Their eyes lock together, each seeking answers only the other possesses.

“I lied, back at the shrine in Tokyo.” The spiker speaks first, filling in blanks to a long-ago suspicion. “I _did_ make a wish.”

Atsumu holds his breath during the pause.

“For the past three years, I was certain it would never come true - that we would never play on the same team.” With no further hesitation, Kiyoomi confesses the secret previously known to only himself and the spirits. “But now, you’re here.” 

_Yah, here I am._ Atsumu almost repeats for the hundredth time that night, but something far more pertinent takes over, salvaged from the deepest depths of his subconscious. What floats to the surface is the same request from years past, but now secured in actual possibility.

“Come to Osaka, Kiyoomi. Let me toss to ya.”

“Ok.”

==

**Moto-kun**   
_I can’t believe it_ _  
_ _The struggle is over_

**Sunarin**   
_Is it really, though?_ _  
_ _You two idiots finally getting together?_ _  
_ _I think our struggle is only beginning_

_If you mean on the court_ _  
_ _Then yes, prepare for defeat_

==

**Saddermu**   
_I texted Kiyoomi-kun that every time he makes fun of you in public_ _  
_ _He can get chazuke on the house_

==

It’s a Tuesday in spring when Atsumu tackles wall drills at twice his usual speed, a bubble of anxiety carrying over from a restless night. The phone within his duffle sits idle, though it also houses paragraphs of text he sent as last-minute study material, covering every possible detail that would potentially catch the Black Jackals coaching staff’s fancy.

_Ultimately Coach Foster’s a pretty relaxed guy_ _  
_ _But like I said_ _  
_ _He will expect a lot out of your reputation_

**Omi-kun** _  
_ _Whatever happens_ _  
_ _It is what it is_

_I just wanna be sure you make it…_

**Omi-kun** **  
**_Stop worrying_ _  
_ _Just send me your best tosses tomorrow_

_  
You know I will _

When Kiyoomi is the first of the tryout candidates to show up, Atsumu resists the urge to simply dash over and wax lyrical to the coaches about how _essential_ Sakusa Kiyoomi would be to the team. Instead, he watches as his boyfriend bows with composure, still embodying that humble, student persona he had - quite literally - graduated from weeks ago.

It’s yet another training gym that may decide their future, like that fateful first day back at Ajinomoto years ago. But this morning, it’s Atsumu and not Motoya that Kiyoomi walks towards, and the spiritual tests of their partnership rest not in the hands of any god, but their own.

“Hey.” He can barely control the smile that threatens to spread far and wide. “Yer here…”

“You doubted me?” Kiyoomi squints with faux suspicion.

“Never.” Atsumu throws him the volleyball playfully, its speed posing no challenge for the spiker’s reflexes. “Ya trust me?”

As expected, an effortless catch. “As much as I hate to say it - always.”

Once the whistle sounds, Kiyoomi watches, and Atsumu indulges. He tosses many times past the 21 and the 37, adhering to his mental snapshots of Kiyoomi’s refined flight paths from his college games, honed after four years of consistent training and play. He tosses like they’ve been intertwined for eons, like every set he has ever gifted was all intended for the ethereal, 192cm form soaring across the court. He tosses like he had done in all their memories, only they are here, and they are now.

_Bam, bam, bam._ The wild projectiles that result from their momentum inspire gasps of awe again and again from the sidelines - the loudest of them from Shouyou, whose inability to control his glee has apparently carried over to adulthood.

“Wow.” Coach Foster smacks his palms together after an especially devastating spike. “Have you two played together before today?”

“Not really.” Combusting with pride - for once, not for himself - Atsumu turns towards his partner and flashes a wink. “But we know each other’s style pretty well, right, Omi-kun?”

He watches Kiyoomi fluster briefly at the nickname - one he never dared to use outside of his contact list until now - but recovery for the sake of professionalism also proves swift.

“Well, it’s really our honor to have the collegiate MVP joining us. Is there a specific reason you chose the Jackals, Sakusa-san?”

“Yes.” As if having prepared this retaliation for his arsenal, Kiyoomi points in Atsumu’s direction, both movement and voice as deadpan as ever. “I’m here to take over Miya’s service ace season record.”

“Hey!” His protest cannot compete with the uproarious laughter that echoes across the facility, but Atsumu finds it hard to complain. After all, Osamu’s chazuke really is _that_ good.

And so Kiyoomi makes it - of course he does - and their quips continue, no longer via text but in full view of those around them. Ironically, “Omi-kun” becomes taunting enough to disguise how close they actually are, turning into an ongoing joke amongst fans that wrongfully pits them as enemies rather than the total opposite. But off the court, the team quickly catches on to the reality of their relationship and grants them privacy whenever, however. They arrange all the lockers by jersey number so 13 and 15 can be adjacent. They know to leave the same two seats open in the second-to-last row of the team bus on every road trip. They understand if the two of them slip away after a match instead of joining the celebrations. Even Shouyou starts saying _Omi-san_ in imitation of Omi-kun, all to help maintain the public illusion that it’s just another inside joke.

But even in this game of velocity and might, it’s always the arbitrary details that get caught and become unforgettable. The uproar starts with an innocent media photo taken from the back of the press conference desks - that brief glimpse of their fingers tangled together beneath the black cloth. Three weeks of commotion and speculation later, it ends with them on the cover of _Volleyball Monthly_ , addressing the truth of their courtship and breaking - but also stirring - hearts all across their homeland.

**_Favorite thing about each other?_ ** **_  
_** **MA:** Lets me into his very, _very_ sacred personal space.   
**SK:** Cute. And he can toss.

**_Least favorite?_ ** ****  
**MA:** Nothing. **  
****SK:** ...the fact that he says things like _that_.

==

There is only anticipation, and no cloud of fear, looming over the stands. At court level, the jersey colors of different countries mesh together to form rainbows reminiscent of years ago, their adorners not only unintimidated, but also beyond daunting themselves. The names that attach to each overheard discussion like enduring plagues are no longer his own, but Atsumu pays no mind, as only one name matters to himself.

“Ya got this.” He pats the shoulder of Japan’s starting Outside Hitter.

Kiyoomi pouts nervously, but still nods, bandaged fingers clutching in determination.

They’re doused in scarlet, serving as proud representatives of all the places they’ve touched down over the years - Amagasaki, Tokyo, Kamakura, Hiroshima, Sapporo, Osaka - as well as all those journeys in-between. The blinding lights above anoint them with the vigor to succeed, and even if one falters, another will carry the burden without pause.

When the match begins, Ushijima ends up hovering next to him, an oblivious instigator of so much strife back during their high school years. Atsumu almost laughs at the absurdity now, but he pivots the amusement into well-intentioned jabs at the towering opposite instead. The blank stares he receives are endearing somehow, as they remind him of Kiyoomi’s earliest, less responsive days. As such, Atsumu no longer questions the teenage infatuation so many had possessed towards his temporary teammate.

“Miya!” The occasional call sounds, and he switches places with Tobio through a series of high-and-low-fives with teammates. Motoya’s hands land on his somewhere in-between, but the last ones are always, always reserved for Kiyoomi.

Even on this electrifying global stage, everything fades away - the scores, the howls on the court, the cheers in the audience. His tosses are perfect, and Kiyoomi’s spikes are perfect, but they’re no longer perfect by measurement or for the sake of victory. The perfection lies in how each highlight imprints their names within the minds of all those watching, and within both of their everlasting memories of each other.

The final point is not blessed by his own hands, but Atsumu still tastes that vehement thrill as he watches Tobio and Shouyou follow-up Kiyoomi’s improbable backcourt receive with seasoned choreography. After all, it only feels proper that the National Team clinches Olympic bronze with the signature quick that has both baffled and defined their era of players. For many, that is how the most satisfying stories end, but Miya Atsumu is not a forgettable transition, and thus, he will always add some garnishes.

_Vertical jump: 1.4 meters. Potential speed: Whatever Sakusa Kiyoomi runs towards him at. Preferred Trajectory: Into Miya Atsumu’s embrace._

His bulky setter frame lifts his partner effortlessly, and Atsumu spins them in the same wild way their coordinated attacks always end up, the momentum launching both of Kiyoomi’s arms freely into the air. Together, they laugh, inundating themselves with a jubilance reserved only for those in victory - but more importantly, in love.

He watches Kiyoomi aloft, cheering with enough fervor to make up for a million lost yesterdays; the remembrances of youth behind them, and the whole world still ahead.

_This memory._ He thinks.

_This one, I’ll keep_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH. Thank you so much for sticking with me to the end of this journey! I’m thrilled to have finished this, and I honestly can’t believe it ended up being 30K+ words (???????). I’m still somewhat tempted to write out the entire Volleyball Monthly interview, but we’ll see ;)
> 
> [This artwork by (The masterful) giiza](https://twitter.com/giiza__/status/1286617479423254528) is the inspiration for the final scene, and it’s actually the artwork that mercilessly flung me into SakuAtsu oblivion a few weeks ago. It captured everything about these two that I adored into a simple image, and it deserves all the love in the world.
> 
> [Last but not least, I drew the beach scene as the fic's Twitter graphic, lol](https://twitter.com/_mika60_/status/1299528238662856707).
> 
> [Please feel free to chat with me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/_mika60_) about all things SakuAtsu! Both the ship and them as individuals have claimed my heart over the past few weeks, so I’m always happy to keep the conversation going :) Still have a few WIPs as well!
> 
> Thank you again, and as always - leave a comment if you feel so inclined!


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